


Fate and Folly

by WildWren



Series: Aethelflaed: Lady of the Mercians [3]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Anglo-Saxon Politics, Changes to the historical record, Continued AU Storyline, Dom/sub, Erotica, F/M, Forbidden Lovers, Gen, Gendered Power Dynamics in Medieval Politics and Sex, Gentle Dom, Happy Ending, I PROMISE THIS TIME, Last Kingdom Kid Gang in Full Force!, Mild Kink, OC romance, Occasional fluff, Viking Politics, Women In Power, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildWren/pseuds/WildWren
Summary: Book 3 of my series Aethelflaed: Lady of the Mercians! New readers, click inside for more information to get you caught up. BEWARE! Spoilers for Fate's Lady ahead in this summary - skip it if you're still working through Part 2!....It’s been o̶n̶e̶ w̶e̶e̶k̶ five years since the Battle of Alnecester. Five years since Aethelflaed and Erik were torn apart by fate - and for the sake of Aethelflaed’s claim to Mercia. They remain in each other’s lives at a painful distance, unable to sever the ties that bind them, unable to give each other what the other truly wants. Amidst their heartache, their daughter Aelfwynn grows up with a rag tag band of warrior’s children. But things are shifting in Mercia. Edward Rex, now King of Wessex, is exerting more control over his sister’s kingdom and trying to draw her into the fold of his own plans. When he comes to her court at Tamworthig with his bastard children, he sets in motion a chain of events that will pull Aethelflaed and Erik closer together than they’ve been in years. It should be simple, but things have never been simple for the lovers torn apart. Are they wound in the strands of fate? Or weaving a web of their own folly?
Relationships: Aethelflaed & Aelfwynn, Aethelflaed Lady of Mercia/Erik Thurgilson, Erik Thurgilson & Aelfwynn, Uhtred & Stiorra
Series: Aethelflaed: Lady of the Mercians [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605529
Comments: 100
Kudos: 33





	1. Introduction

Welcome to Fate and Folly! This is Part 3 of my series Aethelflaed: Lady of the Mercians, an AU take on Aethelflaed’s story. Part 1 is called Hostage of Fate and Part 2 is called Fate’s Lady.

This series is set in an alternate universe that diverges heavily from both TLK canon and the historical record, while maintaining important elements from both. The biggest shift in both canon and history is the continued presence of Erik Thurgilson, Norse warlord turned star-crossed lover, in Lady Aethelflaed’s life. The original canon that I drew from in Part 1 (Hostage of Fate) was a crossover between the book and the show, which presented Erik and Aethelflaed’s relationship slightly differently. So…this has become a bit of its own beast! I will say that although the story focuses heavily on Aethelflaed and Erik’s relationship, it is also a bit of a sprawling look at Aethelflaed’s own experience trying to take power in Mercia. So, even if you’re not an Aethelrik shipper, you might find something to enjoy here.

In the effort of attracting new readers, (and enticing old ones), I will say that _Fate and Folly_ definitely involves: 

  * much politics (mostly relating to Jorvik); 
  * a demonic bastard child of Finan’s causing trouble (because of course he does); 
  * Edward being a pompous asshole (because of course he is); 
  * KID GANG IN FULL FORCE (kid gang! kid gang! kid gang! <—- a chant I wrote); 
  * heart aching angsty pining of Aethelflaed for AU Erik and AU Erik for Aethelflaed (he’s aLiVe!). If you didn’t see that coming, you’re probably new here, eh?; 
  * an Aelfwynn who actually possesses some semblance of a personality; 
  * mildly dysfunctional co-parenting (it’s harder when your heart is broken); 
  * a surprisingly deep dive into chronic illness and Anglo-Saxon leechcraft because, like, why not be that person?; 
  * a cute OC romance, and by cute I mean fucking metal because this is the Viking Age (it involves ordeals); 
  * FLUFF! Yes I said it, there is some actually good-to-God (Praise him!) FLUFF in this story. And, like, humor? Maybe? (okay, maybe no promises on the humor, but I really will try). I didn’t know it was possible but here we are. 
  * A happy ending. Yes, I pinky-promise this time. 



Ummmmm…there’s probably some other stuff too, but maybe that’ll tempt you to dip the ol’ toe in and see how it goes?  
  
That being said, this fic  relies heavily on story elements developed in the first two parts. If you’re a new reader and you want to go back and read them, that’s awesome! I hope you enjoy them, and I think it will help you enjoy this story more. (DO excuse the egregious overuse of adverbs. I’m getting better about that, I think.) 

If you’re a new reader and don’t feel like doing that, no worries! I totally understand. Life’s short and we’re all running out of time. I’ve got you hooked up with a summary and character guide below. I can’t promise that every important element will be covered here, but it should get you rolling. Further story details can be found in the character guide below. If you are still making your way through Books 1 and 2, beware! - reading the summary below will definitely spoil some stuff for you.  


So, here goes: 

** Summary of Book 1 - _Hostage of Fate_ **

_Hostage of Fate_ is an almost-canonical exploration of Aethelflaed’s time in captivity with the brothers Siegfried and Erik. Aethelflaed is taken not as part of Erik’s ploy to abandon London, but in a chance river raid on the Thames (book canon). Aethelflaed is held under Erik’s protection as he tries to convince his brother Siegfried to negotiate for a quick ransom. Erik is about twenty-eight in the story, and Aethelflaed is twenty or twenty-one (a shift in ages from both the show and the book). Erik is more subordinate to his older brother Siegfried, and Haestan is an allied warlord, not Erik’s sworn man. 

Many things progress the way they do in the show - Aethelflaed requests a bath, Erik obliges. Haesten tries to rape Aethelflaed, Erik intervenes. Erik also sets Aethelflaed up with a companion - a Danish maid named Audr who lives in the fortress. Aethelflaed and Audr become fast friends and Audr serves to do a fair bit of matchmaking between Aethelflaed and Erik, passing messages and suggesting to Aethelflaed the possibility that Erik might have feelings for her. Erik and Aethelflaed kiss in the moonlight on the hill, but Aethelflaed turns down any further advances, feeling conflicted about the fact that Erik is an invader and an enemy of her people, and feeling distrustful that he holds her in captivity while also trying to, essentially, make a move. Erik denies trying to seduce her but acknowledges the validity of her feelings of distrust. 

Their relationship continues to develop without physical intimacy. Through conversations, Aethelflaed gets the sense that Erik values her opinion, and sees her as an equal, worthy of respect and regard. During an evening in the hall at Beamfleot, Siegfried shows off Aethelflaed to some of his allies, and the chemistry continues to build between her and Erik. Afterwards, Aethelflaed propositions Erik in private, essentially asking him to turn towards her in love and intimacy, and conspire with her to forge a new path away from Siegfried and Beamfleot together. Erik, thoroughly lovesick, agrees. 

They swear oaths to each other and make love on the beach, sealing their bond. Erik shares with her that he had a wife and a son once, but that both died due to famine and plague in his home village. His relationship with Siegfried is built in part on the fact that his brother saved him from the same fate, and never let him go hungry again. They start to dream up plans for what they will do when they escape the fortress, but can’t find a clear direction. Aethelflaed feels strongly that it is not her fate to be a ship woman or a farm wife, but cannot give more voice to it. 

The envoys arrive finally, and Aethelflaed entreats Uhtred for help with their escape. He agrees to come back in two weeks, create a diversion, and help Erik and Aethelflaed crew a small boat away. Siegfried has become increasingly suspicious of Erik’s feelings for Aethelflaed. Erik tries to shake him off by going on a small raid, but in Erik’s absence, Siegfried puts Haesten in charge of Aethelflaed’s care. Erik returns and realizes he can doing nothing to help her. 

The time passes tensely until Uhtred arrives, with both Erik and Aethelflaed fearing that the plan is lost. On the night of Uhtred’s arrival, Haesten tries to rape Aethelflaed again. With the aid of a knife that Audr smuggled to her, Aethelflaed kills Haesten and tries to send a signal to Erik. She starts preparing to fight her way out once Haesten’s men enter in search of their master. Erik arrives and they fight out together, into the yard where a fire has broken out, distracting Siegfried’s men (Uhtred’s diversion). 

Aethelflaed and Erik flee down the docks where Audr is waiting to accompany them in their escape. Siegfried notices and sends his men to stop them. In the melee at the docks where Uhtred has found them, Aethelflaed kills a man, but Erik is gravely wounded. Aethelflaed commands Uhtred to save Erik, and in the chaos, Uhtred and Erik get on the boat, but Aethelflaed is recaptured. 

**Summary of Book 2 - _Fate’s Lady_ **(sorry it’s long; it’s a long-ass story. It’s divided up into parts)

I. To Mercia: Erik is alive, smuggled away from Beamfleot on a ship with Uhtred, Audr, and his man Dagfinn. He is still recovering from a wicked wound in his side. They dock in Winchester, and Erik heads to Bedaford, over the border in Danish Mercia to raise men, hoping to find Aethelflaed on her release from Beamfleot. Aethelflaed is ransomed from Beamfleot by Aethelred, but she cannot find news of Uhtred or Erik and so fears that Erik is dead. Back at Aegelsburgh, a couple comes, asking to join the household. It turns out to be Audr and Erik’s new man, Birger. Audr tells Aethelflaed that Erik lives and Aethelflaed meets him in the night. They reunite, make love, and decide to try to court allies to take Mercia together. Erik goes back to Bedaford, and Audr and Birger join Aethelflaed’s household. 

II. Aethelflaed of Aegelsburgh: Aethelred spends most of his time away from Aegelsburgh, and in his absence, Aethelflaed works to strengthen her position there, bringing the household under her heel. Meanwhile in Danish Mercia, Erik works on raising men and courting allies for their cause, with mixed success. After Aethelred leaves again with most of the guard of Aegelsburgh, Aethelflaed arranges a meet up with Erik near Bedaford, so that Erik can send back some of his newly sworn men with her. Erik decides to accompany her back to Aegelsburgh - on the way they are attacked by a ragged war band intent on killing Aethelflaed. They defeat the attackers, but Aethelflaed suspects that Aethelred sent the attack to kill her. Erik and Aethelflaed spend some time together at Aegelsburgh over Geoltide in Aethelred’s absence, but after a few days, Erik must return back to Bedaford to continue building rapport there. He returns sooner than expected, called by a request for aid from Aegelsburgh, which turns out to be false. Aethelflaed and Erik spend a night together, both tense, and end up in a painful fight. Erik suggests that they abandon their plan and run away together. Aethelflaed feels betrayed and unseen by Erik’s request, suggesting that he merely wishes to possess her for himself. Erik leaves in the night and Aethelflaed does not pursue him. 

III. War’s Road: Aethelflaed is miserable in the wake of her fight with Erik. She goes to Wintancester and spends some time with her family, only to learn that Alfred still thinks she should try to make it work with Aethelred. Uhtred shares word from his spies that Aethelred has been treating with Siegfried. Aethelflaed flies back to Aegelsburgh, fearing for her fortress and for Erik’s life. Along the way, she picks up some new allies in Edgar and Aelfwynn of Aebingdune. She learns that the Aethelred has abandoned the Oxenford fyrd and successfully claims it in her own name. Upon returning to Aegelsburgh, she finds that Aethelred has in fact re-taken the fortress, killing some of her loyal men in the process. She flees with her remaining men to Bedaford in search of Erik, only to learn that he has been missing since he left to answer her false message. After several days of fear, a messenger returns with Erik’s lost man, Sig, who recounts a harrowing story: they were ambushed and taken captive. Sig managed to escape, but Erik has ended up in the hands of his brother, Siegfried. 

IV. Danelaw: Erik has been “rescued” from his captors by his brother Siegfried (even though Siegfried paid them to take him captive in the first place). His hand has been mutilated during his captivity, and Siegfried’s men must amputate part of it, leaving him with half of a left hand. Their relationship is very tense, with Siegfried holding Erik as a prisoner of his whim. They return to Beamfleot, where Erik learns that Siegfried has conspired with Aethelred, and that Aethelred now knows the truth of his relationship with Aethelflaed. He fears for her, but there is nothing he can do.

Aethelflaed gathers her closest allies in Oxenford and finally reveals the truth of her relationship with Erik. She leaves with a party of men to travel to Beamfleot to try to treat for Erik’s life and head off Siegfried’s attack. Along the way, she has some adventures and misadventures through the countryside, but all in all, ends up winning the regard of the Mercian people. At Beamfleot, she treats with Siegfried, but he will not reveal whether or not Erik is at the fortress. His men try to drive her and her party off, but she and Audr sneak back into the fortress through a door used for camp women. Aethelflaed finds Erik, but he is psychologically traumatized by his ordeal and at first refuses to leave with her, thinking himself unworthy of her love. She reveals to him that she is pregnant with his child. Siegfried discovers them, and after a fight, Erik kills his brother, to his own grief and dismay. Erik, Aethelflaed, and Audr escape Beamfleot on a small boat, and manage to take the remaining money from Aethelflaed’s ransom with them as they flee. 

V. The Lady of Mercia: Erik, Audr, and Aethelflaed rest at Uhtred’s estate in Coccham. They reunite with the rest of their party and spend time with Uhtred and Gisela, but there is little warmth between Aethelflaed and Erik - Erik is still unable to have any emotional or physical intimacy with her after his trauma. He slowly starts to turn a corner, and they share a night together on the road north to Oxenford. In Oxenford, they meet again with Aethelflaed’s strongest allies and decide on a plan for battle against Aethelred. It is clear that Erik must take over as Lord of Mercia from Aethelred, which sits uneasily with both him and Aethelflaed. Erik goes to Bedaford to rise the Danish warriors he’s been courting there, while Aethelflaed marches North to meet Aethelred at Alnecester. Erik nearly does not make it time for the battle, but arrives at the last minute, on the eve of the fight. He and Aethelflaed share a night together, and he agrees that Aethelflaed should fit in the battle, even though he fears for her. 

They fight Aethelred’s troops in a downpour the following day, taking the opposing army with a surprise charge. Erik and Aethelflaed get separated on the battlefield, and Erik leaves the fight briefly to assist his man Birger, who is gravely injured. While he is gone, Aethelflaed manages to trap and corner Aethelred, only for Aldhelm to kill his master before Aethelflaed can. She is incensed with anger, but then Aldhelm, the Mercian guard, and other Mercian nobles begin to pledge their swords to her as the Lady of Mercia. Aethelflaed and Erik meet in the woods after the battle is done. Erik reveals that he knows the truth of what has happened, and says that his honor cannot allow him to claim her - and Mercia - after she has won the battle for herself. She is desperate in her denial, but he is equally firm: he will not own her. They part in grief. 

Weeks pass, and Aethelflaed receives the consent of Alfred to honor her claim in Mercia, even though he is angered at her plotting, and at the truth he now knows: she carries an illegitimate child. They agree to never speak the truth, and to instead put forth the child as Aethelred’s heir. Erik waits for Aethelflaed’s return to Aegelsburgh. On her return, he swears an oath of fealty to her, but leaves before anything more intimate - or painful - can happen between them. He rides off into the night to find his fate. 

**Character Guide -**

Here is a character guide to important Original Characters from Books 1 and 2, as well as a few Canon characters, if their stories have diverged from Canon. Organized in alphabetical order. New OCs introduced in Book 3 are not included in this list. As Erik says early in Season 2: “Danes, Northmen, Saxons…priests, pagans! A strange mix.”

(except….there’s no priests cause I’m bad at writing about Christianity and I really neglected the religious stuff, particularly in Fate’s Lady eep! My excuse is that Aethelflaed was either on the run or at war for most of the story, and also that she was having a bit of a crisis of faith…which is definitely not a real excuse but it’s what I’ve got! I plan to rectify the situation in Part 3). 

**Aelfric Reeve -** _Saxon of Mercia. Deceased_. Aelfric was a ceorl (free peasant) of Lundenwic who administered the Hundred Court there. Aethelflaed got into a dispute with him about his judgement on a young Danish boy while witnessing the court herself. Aelfric later attacked her in private, spurring Aethelflaed to kill him. 

**Aethelred -** _Saxon of Mercia. Deceased. Canon character_. Aethelred, Lord of Mercia, was a cruel husband to Aethelflaed and a traitor to Wessex. He plotted with Siegfried to defeat Alfred and see himself crowned puppet king of Mercia. He was killed at the Battle of Alnecester by his sworn man, Aldhelm, resulting in Aethelflaed being unable to claim vengeance on him as she wanted. Aethelflaed still occasionally experiences post-traumatic episodes reliving his abuse. 

**Aethelfwulf -** _Saxon of Mercia._ Aethelflaed’s Mercian uncle (Aelswith’s brother), Aethelwulf reluctantly pledged his support to her cause, although he expressed significant doubts about the proposal of a marriage alliance with Erik. His men fought for Aethelflaed at the Battle of Alnecester. He gave Alfred the news that Aethelflaed was planning to marry Erik. 

**Aldhelm -** _Saxon of Mercia. Canon character._ Aldhelm was a loyal servant of Aethelred, but their relationship began to deteriorate in the lead-up to the Battle of Alnecester. Aldhelm started to doubt Aethelred’s leadership and tire of his cavalier cruelty and oversized ego, while Aethelred ceased to listen to Aldhelm’s advice. At the climax of the Battle, Aldhelm killed Aethelred and swore his support to Aethelflaed, setting off a chain of events that resulted in Aethelflaed being named Lady of Mercia. 

**Aldun -** _Dane (raised Saxon) of Mercia._ Aldun is a warrior from the Mercian countryside recruited to be Aethelflaed’s personal bodyguard. He speaks both English and Danish well. 

**Alwin and Mildreth of Celtanhom -** _Saxons of Mercia_. Alwin and Mildreth are allies of Aethelflaed’s among the Mercian landholders. Alwin is ill mannered, crude, and rather stupid, but Mildreth is clever and kind. She “weaves the sails” of her relationship with Alwin, driving his course to support Aethelflaed. Mildreth gifted Aethelflaed with two bitch hounds who became loyal friends. Alwin’s warriors from Gloucester did not arrive in time for the Battle of Alnecester. 

**Audr -** _Dane of East Anglia, now Mercia._ Aethelflaed’s closest companion since Audr served her as a maid and confidante during her time at Beamfleot. Audr is quick-witted, sharp-tongued and kind, often pointing out things to Aethelflaed that she does not see for herself. Audr has always supported Erik and Aethelflaed’s relationship and is loyal to both, going so far as to challenge Aethelflaed for her actions towards Erik in Book 2. Audr is not much of a fighter, although she practices with the bow. However, she in an accomplished healer, and has tended many grave wounds throughout the story. 

**Birger -** _Dane of Mercia (Danelaw)._ A friendly, affable man with strong fighting skills, Birger was recruited by Erik in Bedaford near the start of Book 2. Birger was later sent to Aegelsburgh by Erik for Aethelflaed’s behalf, and became her loyal man as well. Aethelflaed trusted him to hold the Oxenford fyrd in her absence, and he also served as a hostage during Aethelflaed’s negotiations with Siegfried. Birger’s wounding at the Battle of Alnecester prompted Erik to leave the field to see him tended, leading in part to the fateful turn of events that drove Erik and Aethelflaed apart. Often described as a rather ugly man, Birger is nevertheless well liked and has a special talent of making friends wherever he goes. 

**Brione -** _Wealh (Briton), previously enslaved in Mercia._ Brione was a wealh slave at Aegelsburgh until Aethelflaed promoted her to manage the household. When Aethelred recaptured the fortress, Brione was unable to escape, and Aethelred branded her with a scar down her cheek. She still functions as an essential part of Aethelflaed’s household and has two teenage children on the estate as well. 

**Clufweart -** _Saxon of Mercia_. Another recruit from the Mercian countryside, Clufweart is a bold and brash peasant girl who is highly skilled with the bow. She ran away from home to join Aethelflaed’s personal guard. She is often overconfident and sometimes obnoxious, but she is loyal and lovable nonetheless. 

**Cuthbert -** _Saxon of Mercia (Danelaw)._ Cuthbert is a Saxon lord who holds land near Bedaford in Danish Mercia. A shrewd and calculating man, Cuthbert became a strong ally to Aethelflaed and Erik despite knowing the truth of their relationship, hoping for peace and prosperity in a Mercia united by Saxon and Northman. Cuthbert helped Erik raise Danish warriors for the Battle of Alnecester and accompanied him North to the fight. 

**Dagfinn -** _Northman Viking. Deceased. Somewhat canon character (characterization changed)._ Dagfinn was Erik’s most loyal oath man, having followed Erik from their home in Norway when Erik joined Siegfried’s crew. Dagfinn helped Erik and Aethelflaed’s escape attempt, and stayed by Erik’s side until he was killed in the ambush by Lord Olaf’s men that made Erik a captive. 

**Deagol and Edgewulf -** _Saxons of Mercia. Deceased_. Two of Aethelflaed’s sworn Saxon guards, Deagol and Edgewulf were good friends and blood brothers. Deagol died during Aethelred’s recapture of Aegelsburgh, and Edgewulf died at the Battle of Alnecester while avenging his friend. 

**Edgar and Aelfwynn of Aebingdune -** _Saxons (Mercia and Wessex, respectively)_. Edgar and Aelfwynn are Aethelflaed’s closest allies among the Mercian landholders. It was they who originally told Aethelflaed of the state of disarray of the Oxenford fyrd. They later pledged their support to her cause against Aethelred, despite knowing of the truth of the relationship with Erik. Edgar can be a bit of a bossy boots, and often challenges Aethelflaed’s ideas and plans, but his wife Aelfwynn usually helps him come around to Aethelflaed’s way of thinking. Aethelflaed’s daughter is named in honor of her loyal friend.  ****

**Edmund -** _Saxon of Wessex_. **Not** to be confused with Edgar, who is his brother-in-law. Edmund is Aelfwynn’s brother, and has served as a member of Alfred’s personal guard. He travelled north with Aethelflaed from Winchester at Alfred’s command in Book 2. Along the way, he introduced Aethelflaed to Edgar and Aelfwynn, experienced the disarray at Oxenford, and witnessed Aethelred turn openly against Aethelflaed at Aegelsburgh. After deciding to proceed into Danish Mercia against Edmund’s counsel, Aethelflaed sent him back to Wessex to report to her father of Aethelred’s treachery.  ****

**Finan -** _Irishman_. _Canon character_. Uhtred’s sworn Irishman, Finan was sent to give a message to Aethelflaed before the Battle of Alnecester - that her father waited with troops over the Wessex border and might have marched against her on the field. Along with Osferth and Sihtric, Finan fought in the Battle, serving as part of Aethelflaed’s personal guard on the field. They remain friends.  ****

**Haestan -** _Northman Viking. Deceased. Canon character_. Haesten was a sworn ally of Erik and Siegfried during their time together as lords of Beamfleot. Erik and Haesten quickly found themselves at odds over Aethelflaed’s containment and care following Haesten’s attempt to rape her. After Siegfried transferred Aethelflaed to Haesten’s charge, Haesten tried to force himself on her again, at which point Aethelflaed killed him with a short kitchen knife.  ****

**Siegfried -** _Northman Viking. Deceased. Canon character_. Erik’s older brother. Siegfried suspected that Erik was too fond of Aethelflaed, and put her in Haesten’s care instead, fueling bad blood between the brothers. After Erik’s escape, Siegfried plotted with Aethelred and used Aethelred’s information to set a trap for Erik. After Olaf captured Erik, Siegfried retrieved him and brought him back to Beamfleot, subjecting him to emotional and psychological torment. During Aethelflaed’s attempt to rescue Erik, Erik and Siegfried fought a duel, resulting in Siegfried’s death at Erik’s hand.  ****

**Sig -** _Dane of Mercia (Danelaw)._ One of Erik’s sworn men, recruited from the area around Bedaford. In Book 2, Sig accompanied Erik in responding to the false call for aid from Aegelsburgh. On the way back, they were attacked by Lord Olaf’s men. Erik and Sig were taken captive but Sig was able to escape and bring news of Erik’s capture back to Aethelflaed and Cuthbert in Bedaford, nearly dying in the process. Sig and Erik finally reunited before the Battle of Alnecester.

Okay, I think I've blabbered on enough. If you read all this introductory material, wow! I'm impressed. 

Now, without further ado: _Fate and Folly_


	2. Long Have We Parted Been

“It wasn’t their faults! It wasn’t! Don’t be angry!” 

Aethelflaed stared at her daughter, standing before her on the flagstones, dripping muddy water from her soaked and soiled clothes. Aelfwynn’s lip was red and swollen. A bead of blood trembled on it as the girl held back ashamed and fearful tears. Aethelflaed tried to keep her face stern. 

“So I’m to believe that it was all _your_ idea, to sneak out from the yard and try to find…what was it? _Buried Viking treasure_ in the woods?” 

“No! I mean, yes! I mean…” Aelfwynn shot a desperate look at the group of children, huddled defensively in the corner. 

“You are a trouble-maker, Aelfwynn, but I don’t think you’re _that_ devious.” 

Aelfwynn opened her mouth in a confused sort of way, her face creasing at the unknown word. 

“I mean,” said her mother, “that there’s only so much mischief in that little body of yours. And I don’t think there’s enough of it for a plan like this.” 

Aelfwynn’s face slumped in defeat. “You will punish them, then.” 

Aethelflaed could not suppress a small laugh at that. “Since when have Young Uhtred and Finric been your whipping boys?” 

Aelfwynn’s face shot up, painted with confusion again. Aethelflaed beckoned the children forward. 

“Come forward, now,” she said, trying to affect a sense of gentle sternness in her voice. “I will punish _all of you_.” 

Young Uhtred’s eyes flashed with a look of pained anxiety - _poor boy_ , _he was the only good egg amongst them_. Stiorra’s face was as calm and expressionless as a placid lake, but Aethelflaed knew the sharp-edged cleverness that lay beneath the surface. And Finric…. _oh, Finric_. The boy was the smallest of the children, but Aethelflaed thought that the devil himself must have claimed some part of the child’s soul. He was half goblin-ish, all darting eyes and wicked little mischief-struck grins. His dark curls appeared matted with grime no matter how often they were washed and combed, and his face was only half-smeared with dirt on a good day. He was Aelfwynn’s favorite person in the world. Well…her _second_ favorite, Aethelflaed supposed. 

The children stood before her in an awkward, self-conscious line. Aelfwynn’s golden head was the brightest amongst them. 

“So — just to be clear,” Aethelflaed stated. “ _Someone_ decided it would be ‘fun’ to sneak out of the yard and explore the woods. And _someone_ thought it would be a good idea to look for treasure at the top of the cliffs. And _someone_ , who may or may not be the oldest among you, did not think it would be wise to challenge this plan.” Aethelflaed fixed her gaze on Stiorra, who smiled and blinked in an innocent sort of way. Uhtred opened his mouth to speak, but Aethelflaed swore she saw Stiorra give a swift, light kick to his ankle, and he fell silent. 

“And _someone_ ,” Aethelflaed continued, “thought it would be just _hilarious_ to push Aelfwynn down the back slope of the cliff.” 

“I fell!” Aelfwynn protested, “I swear I fell!” But “someone” was currently trying to suppress a guilty little smile beneath a snot-smeared face. Aethelflaed sighed. 

“I’m afraid you’re all equally at fault. Even if… _someone_ was trying his best to get you all to turn back the entire time.” Young Uhtred swallowed and looked down at the floor. Aelfwynn gave a whimpering little sigh. “You’re only lucky that little Osbert was sick in the nursery and couldn’t be roped into your schemes. I would be even angrier if you put that poor child in danger.”

Stiorra looked unperturbed as she spoke. “So, will it be the stables again, Auntie Aethel?” 

Aethelflaed winced. “For God’s sake, Stiorra — how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? It’s….frankly, awful.” 

Stiorra smiled, dimpling her cheeks winsomely. 

“No,” Aethelflaed said, shaking off the moment. “It’ll be the scriptorium for you. Copying your letters until supper time.” 

Aelfwynn’s eyes widened in horror. “But—mother! Thats —!”

“Half a day? Yes. Take care for hand cramps.” 

The children stared at her mutely. She nodded at Alba, the nursemaid in the corner. “Get them cleaned up, and send them to Oswey.” 

The woman shuffled forward. Aelfwynn cried, “Mother!” again in a pitiful way that was meant to make Aethelflaed feel bad. She was only mildly effected, and she hid it well. 

“Oh, and do mind your wrists. I hear Father Oswey has a rod and he’s not afraid to use it.” 

It had started with Finric - _“a wee bastard of questionable birth_.” That’s what Finan had called him, when he brought the child to her. But he said it with love. 

“The life of a warrior is no life for a babe.” 

It was a mere handful of months after Aelfwynn’s birth. Aethelflaed was still weak from the labor sickness, only able to walk for short stretches until her head swam and darkness edged in at the fringes of her vision. 

“And the mother?” Aethelflaed asked, as she took the swaddled bundle into her arms and cooed gently at the child’s face. 

“Ah…” Finan looked at her with regretful eyes. “She…is dead, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m sorry, Finan,” Aethelflaed said. There had been so much grief in her heart then, from the loss of Erik, and the heartbreakingly joyful pain of bringing Aelfwynn into the world. She had to beat back tears at Finan’s words, and felt slightly silly for it. “That is…an impossible pain to bear.”

Finan shrugged, as if trying to push away her empathy. “I…I cannot say I knew her very well. She was kind, she…deserved better, I think. But…it was not like that between us.” 

“I see.” Aethelflaed’s brow creased. “And you are sure that the babe is yours?” 

“Well…I suppose you can never be certain. But, I think the lad has my wee nose, don’t you?” 

So Finric joined Aethelflaed’s household. She could have said it was repayment of a debt she held to Finan, who had risked his own head to help her in battle with no promise of reward. But she was grateful, too, that Aelfwynn would have a companion to grow up beside. She would have no siblings, and such was a lonely life. 

But the next year, more children had come. 

_“Their mother….their mother is dead. And…I am not at Coccham enough for it to be a true home for them. I…I did not know where else to take them.”_

Uhtred’s grief lay on his face like the pallor of the dead. He could not even speak Gisela’s name, and when he hugged and kissed his children goodbye, he moved with the cold stiffness of a man whose heart has gone dry and empty within him. Aethelflaed thought she knew his grief, she felt it in her bones - what it was to carry a dead dream, to bury a lost hope. She could not have denied him anything, not even if it meant taking three more children into her household, and another newborn at that. At this rate, she would soon need wet nurses on retainer. 

And so they’d all been together, for almost four years. It was something like family, Aethelflaed thought, and she was very grateful for it, despite all the headaches it caused her.Sometimes it was enough to ease the pain in her heart. _Sometimes_. 

Aelfwynn was sour at dinner. She did not speak to Aethelflaed for most of the meal - none of the children did. It was as if they had formed a private pact to be as disagreeable as possible. They did not even bow their heads when Oswey prayed over the meal, but instead glared at him steadfastly. All except Young Uhtred, who was a pious boy and a good heart. And Finric - well, it was not so strange for him to be disagreeable over his supper. He was always a devil at the table. Perhaps it was not a pact after all. 

Aethelflaed did not chide her daughter’s manners, although she knew she should’ve. Cold anger seemed to simmer off of Aelfwynn, and Aethelflaed had no wish to provoke it. But soon the servants came to clear off the trenchers, and to pour more drink for Birger and his men, who moved their party to huddle around a fire in an alcove of the hall. 

“Alba will get you ready for bed,” Aethelflaed spoke to Aelfwynn in a soft voice. “Shall I come to say goodnight in a bit?” She placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, hoping to affect a gesture of consolation. Aelfwynn wrenched her arm away and glared up at Aethelflaed in reply. 

“If my father was here — ” Aelfwynn started, and Aethelflaed’s felt her heart fall crashingly into her gut. 

“Aelfwynn—”

“If he… if Lord Aefelred was still alive, he wouldn’t treat me like this!” Aelfwynn’s face was contorted with exaggerated displeasure, her mouth like a painted frown and her chin dimpling with the effort. 

“Aelfwynn, I’m — I’m sorry.” 

It had been like this for months now. Every fault of Aethelflaed’s was a favor towards Aethelred - the idea of Aethelred - of _Aelfwynn’s father_. The child could have no idea what pain this wrought in her mother, what pitiful fantasy she believed in, but still, it was easier borne than— 

“Or Erik! If Erik was here, he would protect me from _you!_ ” 

_Ah_. It was easier borne than that. 

Aelfwynn’s anger was starting to shift to a display of violent, shuddering tears, and a serving woman looked up, startled at the scene. 

“Hush…hush now, my love,” she said, but Aelfwynn just fixed her with a look of bitter grief. 

“Do you think he will come back soon?” 

“Who…Erik?” She spoke as quietly as she could, self-conscious of the vulnerability of the moment. She felt afraid of what her face looked like. 

Aelfwynn sniffed. “Yes.” Erik was a special friend of Aelfwynn’s, doting on her and taking her riding every time that he visited the court, but that was all she knew.

“I…I don’t know, my love. I could write to him…if you wish?” 

Aelfwynn nodded, shaking a few loose tears from her eyes to splash down her cheeks. The girl seemed to be easing, and Aethelflaed reached out a tentative hand to touch her. But in a breath, Aelfwynn pushed off from the table and ran out of her grasp and towards Alba, who stood tentatively at the edge of the table. 

Aethelflaed sighed. 

This question never eased - in her own mind, or in Aelfwynn’s. For all the moments of tenderness and sweetness she found with her daughter, this always came between them. What could she do? What should she tell Aelfwynn of the man Aethelred, who was said to be her father? Should she lie about Aethelred, claiming he was good and noble, or should she tell her young child the truth of the man? Or should she instead tell Aelfwynn of the character of the true father, without ever divulging his name? It was too complicated for a child of five to wrap her head around. It was too complicated for Aethelflaed most of the time.

Now Aelfwynn was shepherded away by Alba, leaving Aethelflaed in her wake, awkward and alone. She stood up from the table, and Oswey, the dark-haired cleric caught her eye. 

“I head now to the chapel, for evening prayers.” He spoke in his usual flat tone, his face unreadable, but his eyes sharp and flashing. “Can I expect to see your Ladyship there?” 

Aethelflaed suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Oswey. I…will meet you there shortly. There’s something I must do first.” 

Oswey nodded, and Aethelflaed strode away, in search of parchment and ink. 

_Your daughter wishes to see you._ Erik read the note, taking in the curves and lines of each letter. It was still a struggle, to piece the words together, the strange scrawled symbols of the English tongue. His letters were still new to him, learned from a sour cleric who believed he was Christianizing a Heathen Dane. Erik had once thought Aethelflaed would teach him, but….that had not come to be. 

“So. What does it say?” It was Birger who had found him in Bedaford, who delivered the note with a grin and a hug and a slap on the back to knock the wind from Erik’s chest. (“Glad to see that old wound’s not weakening your arm.”) Now Birger waited expectantly, staring into Erik’s solemn face across the worn tavern table. 

“You did not read it?” Erik asked, surprised. 

“Of course I did not read it!” Birger had learned to read as well, at Aethelflaed’s court, and bragged often that he was better in his letters than Erik. Erik did not doubt it. 

He laughed now. “You are too honorable for your own good, Birger. If Aethelflaed gave you the note, I’m sure she trusted you to read it.” 

Birger’s face was creased with some unknown concern, his brown eyes slightly saddened. “I don’t know about that, Lord. I think she wanted you to have it first.” 

Erik brushed away the feeling the man’s words raised and laughed awkwardly. “Don’t call me Lord, Birger. How many times do I have to tell you that? It didn’t suit you when I was your lord and it suits even less now that you outrank me.” Birger was the head of Aethelflaed’s household guard. Erik held no such honor. 

Birger grinned in his good-natured way. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.” 

“Yea, but that’s the funny bit, I can’t remember it ever being a habit of yours.”

Birger laughed. “It’s been a while. You’re growing old and your mind is getting soft.” 

Erik knew he was joking. It was a game they played, teasing each other like that. But it did feel like a long time - the time that had passed since…since what? Since Erik’s life had broken forever in two. 

Birger was beckoning to a barmaid, begging for his mug to be refilled. 

“How is she?” Erik asked, trying to hide his embarrassment in a sip of his own ale.

“Lady Aethelflaed?” Birger asked. “Or Aelfwynn?” 

“Both, I suppose.”

Birger took a breath, collecting all his reckonings into a neat bundle to be shared. “Good, I suppose. The same. Aelfwynn gets into mischief and charms most people she meets. She is getting big. She speaks of you often.” 

Erik smiled, honestly. He loved his daughter, even though he did not see her enough. He was glad that she thought of him. “She is five this year,” he said, uselessly, for Birger already knew Aelfwynn’s years. But it was nice to say it. 

Birger nodded. He was generous like that. 

“And Aethelflaed?” Erik asked, as casually as he could. 

“The same, I suppose.” Birger repeated. Perhaps he felt awkward as well. “Graceful, fearless, a bit sad.” Erik closed his eyes briefly, and rubbed his face to cover his expression. “Her horde of sworn oath men swells by the moon.” 

Erik laughed at the churlish tone in Birger’s voice. He supposed it was difficult, trying to train and keep track of the bands of eager young men wishing to serve the _Lady of Mercia_. Erik wished to roll his eyes at it himself. “She cannot help it,” he said. “It is in her nature. Inspiring loyalty…it comes as easy as breathing to her.” 

Birger looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think it is easy for her. I think it is quite hard, actually.” 

Erik suddenly wished to change the subject, desperately. “Ah, well. I trust your judgement then. I suppose I will see for myself soon enough.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“I’m coming back with you, Birger. My daughter bids me.” It was a simple pleasure, to speak the truth of the thing to Birger, when he could speak the truth so rarely. 

Birger nodded, and Erik rose to stand. 

“Wha— _now_?” Birger’s face was sour and surprised as he paused in raising a fresh mug of ale to his lips. “I…I only just got here.” 

Erik clicked his tongue impatiently and drained his own mug with a sweeping gesture. “Bad luck for you then, I suppose. You caught me just as I was readying to travel to Tamworthig anyway.” 

Birger lowered his drink. “Truly?” 

“Truly,” Erik said. “I have news to share. And…I fear it will not be welcome.” 

Bedaford was the closest thing Erik had to a home, he supposed, and it was a shallow one at that - a bed in an alcove of Cuthbert’s hall when he needed it and a well-worn stool at the most pleasant tavern in town. He did not mind such simple trappings of a life - they kept him honest, and kept him sane, most days. Bedaford was part of Aethelflaed’s Mercia now, well and truly, but it still churned with more Danes than anywhere West of the old Watling Road. He liked that - it made him homesick, but in a good way. It reminded him who he was. But he never stayed for long. 

The arrangement worked as well as could be expected, he supposed. He could not ride away from Aethelflaed forever, abandoning her and their daughter, as much as he sometimes wished that he could. He wanted to know Aelfwynn, to be a part of her life, but he could not stay at Aethelflaed’s court. Neither of them could have lived like that. 

She had offered him land. She had offered him title. It was no less than he deserved, she said, and he supposed that was true. _For loyal service rendered at Alnecester._ He could barely stomach the thought - as if he had done it all for a simple reward, and not for the wild needfulness of his own heart. He refused that reward, and the rootedness it would bring, and the expectations that rootedness would place on his shoulders - a wife, a family, an heir. He could not have borne that weight. 

He roamed the countryside in Aethelflaed’s service instead, a scout and a spy. It gave him a good excuse to be gone for long periods, and an equally good excuse to always come back. He traveled, and he learned where there was famine and where there was strife. He learned where the raiders had come that season, and what damage they had wrought. He found the towns whose prosperity outstripped their tax payments, and the villages that were barely struggling to get by. 

And he listened for news of Aethelflaed - what the people thought of their lady, what they said of her in gossip and stories. He learned that the people of Wircestershire praised her name and blessed her in their prayers, for her endowment of their new church and bishropric. He learned that the people of Lundenwic still grumbled at her for the slaying of their reeve, and how they complained that she had traded their lives to Wessex in exchange for the King’s support. Always her name dogged him, swimming through his mind, living in his dreams. _Aethelflaed_ … _Aethelflaed…Aethelflaed_. The woman who had once been his. 


	3. The Hall at Tamworthig

Aethelflaed had been living at Tamworthig for almost three years now. The fortress and town had been reclaimed from the Danes a year after Aelfwynn’s birth, and Aethelflaed had spent the intervening time rebuilding the hall and shoring up the town’s defenses. Now it was a worthy place for her court, and her burgeoning school, and the children she raised and tended there. Even her father had been proud, she had thought, for all the coldness that had grown between them since she had taken power in Mercia. _Tamworthig_ , _ancient capital of the Mercians, home of King Offa, reclaimed for the Angle-kin._ He had sent her a gift of a fine golden cross to hang in the hall, alongside copies of his English and Latin manuscripts for the school. Aethelflaed had felt the old love for him, then. 

But Alfred was dead now, and Edward Rex was King in Wessex, and Aethelflaed sat, somewhat awkwardly, between her hungry brother and the hungrier Danes of Jorvik and beyond. Her life often felt consumed by war, by the seemingly unending need for military planning. Burhs had to be built and outfitted, smithies supplied with stock and fuel for weapons and mail, coins minted to pay for the infinite number of small necessities that drove an army to success. Aethelflaed was often up for hours into the night, reading letters, copying lists and ledgers until the candles guttered on their wicks and her eyes ached in the dimness. 

She sometimes felt her days stretched ahead of her like cold, gray sentinels, each one following the next in an endless procession, without change or interest. It was like the color had seeped slightly from her world, making everything as dim and gray as it had been in the days after Aelfwynn’s birth, when she could barely see for the birth sickness. 

Of course this was not true. For she ruled Mercia in _her own name._ Men swore oaths of fealty to her, and her alone. With her hand, she shaped the countryside and changed the face of the very Earth. And when she sat in the high seat of her hall, the walls aglow with cresset light, and the rafters echoing with bright laughter - the sounds of children, and warriors, of Northmen, and Christians, all co-existing, somehow, in a gentle peace beneath _her_ roof….In those moments, she could say she was happy. 

_It’s worth it_ , she would think, _to live like this_. It had to be. 

It was hard not to think of the note. She had tried not to put too much care into the lines and letters. She had tried not to spend any more time on it than she would have any other missive. She sent it with Birger and tried not to think of it once it was gone, or of the man who would receive it, or of where he would be, and what he would do when he read it. But all of that was not so easily done. 

He would not respond in writing, not unless he was very far away. He was embarrassed of his letters, she knew. In truth, they were childish, written in a large, trembling hand and splotched with ink. She knew he did not wish her to see them, and judge him, so he did not write if he could avoid it. He had written her only two notes in the entire time they had lived like this. Aethelflaed had saved them both, and would read them sometimes when she was very lonely. This was a secret that she would never divulge to anyone for as long as she lived, not even to Audr, who was still her closest companion. 

One said: _Bad luck in Jorvik. Sorry_. It had been meant to tell her that a scouting mission in Eoferwic had gone poorly and that it would be a long time until Erik would be back again. The spelling was strange and unconventional, and Aethelflaed had struggled to read it when she had received it. But then she had realized that Erik had tried to render the spellings in his own Norse accent, and she laughed in delight at his cleverness. 

The other was much more precious. It read simply: _Tell Aelfwynn I will see her soon with love_. There was no space between “soon” and “with,” nothing to suggest that he had meant to say he wrote the note “with love.” But Aethelflaed liked to imagine that he meant it that way, sometimes. Either way, it was precious. It was a gift to know that her daughter was loved, despite the hurt that had been made for them all.

Erik was at Tamworthig within the week. Aethelflaed greeted him as she would any of her thegns, welcoming him on the steps of her hall. He bid a servant to come take his horse, fussing for long moments over the saddle and tack, rearranging and reorganizing his small pack, before finally looking at her. It was always like this when he returned - he tried to look at her as little as possible, to speak to her only when necessary, to edge around and outside of her awareness, as if they were two blind fish in a pool. In return, Aethelflaed stared at him fiercely, trying to dare him to look at her, to speak to her. But he always slipped out of her grasp. 

“Lady,” he said, bowing formally, keeping his eyes down for as long as possible. 

“Welcome, Thurgilson.” She did not call him by his given name. That was off limits for them now. 

Erik looked up and saw Audr, standing beside Aethelflaed, and his face cracked into a genuine smile. Aethelflaed swallowed. 

“Audr! It is good to see you!” Audr smiled in return and skipped to hug him in friendship. 

“You are getting old, Erik,” she teased. “I barely recognized you.” 

It was true that Erik’s face had changed. He was past thirty now, and the lines around his eyes stayed even when he was not smiling. But his face had always been rough and scarred, and the weathering of age that showed on him now did not detract from his beauty. He was like a rugged cliff in that way. He could change and weather, and yet, he would never lose the essence of himself. 

Still, he _had_ changed. There was a sadness in his eyes and a hollowness in his cheeks that had not always been there. But he smiled at Audr, and it lit him up like a candle, so that he was flush with life. Aethelflaed ached at the sight of it, and at the fact that he never smiled like that at her, not anymore. 

She had changed too, she knew. She was only six-and-twenty, hardly a matron, but her body had shifted after Aelfwynn’s birth. She was softer, and more heavy on her feet. She was tired most days, and ill more than she would have liked. She hoped she did not look ill now.

“Eriiiik!!” Aelfwynn tore out of the hall and down the steps, rushing to greet Erik like a puppy to his boy. Erik’s face lit up again and he scooped her up into his arms, tossing her easily in the air while she squealed in glee.Aethelflaed watched as he lifted Aelfwynn onto his shoulders, and the girl playfully combed through his hair, babbling with excitement. 

“What should we do first, aelska?” Erik asked, as he walked around the yard, letting her pat the heads of passers-by and lifting her so she could pretend to try to climb the stone walls. 

“I want to go riding!” Aelfwynn demanded, and Erik sighed dramatically. 

“I am tired, Lady Aelfwynn. I just got here! Maybe I could tell you stories of my travels for now, and we can go riding later.” 

Aelfwynn appeared to be taking the consideration seriously, weighing her decision with care. 

“Fine,” she said. “There is a fire in the hall. Take me there!” 

“Whatever my lady commands.” Aethelflaed smiled as they passed, but he did not catch her eye. She looked away quickly, trying to cover the moment. 

It was always hard, coming back. It would never not be painful to see her again. It would always be a labor to try to avoid looking at her, while wanting instead to stare into her face. But he could not look at her without causing himself more pain. 

Aethelflaed was much unchanged in Erik’s eyes. She was like a fixed star, never aging. He knew that the birth had been hard on her, and that she had been ill for months after it. But she was still as beautiful as she had been the first time he had seen her, the first time he had held her in his arms and given himself to her. She was like some enchanted metal, impervious to tarnishing. He had thought her golden once - _a golden woman_ \- but she was more like silver now to him. She had not gone grey - her hair was still nut brown and shining, and her skin still flushed and glowed. But there was a coldness to her too, a sadness, like Birger had described. She was no longer the sun of his life but the moon, far away, untouchable, casting a cold beauty that could not be his. 

The hall at Tamworthig was a fine place - finer and larger than the hall at Aegelsburgh had been. It managed to somehow be very grand and easily comfortable at the same time - a testament to Aethelflaed’s own personality, which was both fiercely gentle and quietly strong. The main hall was wide and tall, with narrow fire trenches running down the center. On feasting occasions, long tables would be brought in and placed at either side of the pits, but for now the hall was open and airy, with only the shorter high table fixed at the far end of the hall below Aethelflaed’s ceremonial seat. Nestled along the side walls were numerous small alcoves and resting spots, neatly partitioned with tapestries and carved wooden screens. In some, guardsmen drank and rested, on their leave. In others, women spun and wove on great weighted looms, their talk and laughter drowned by the thump of wooden beaters. One alcove led to the kitchens, which stuck out from the main hall like a burl on the trunk of an Oak, and a serving woman pushed through the curtained doorway with a pitcher of fresh ale for the men. 

Behind Aethelflaed’s seat was a great stone pillar that stretched to the ceiling, chiseled and carved with the ancient symbols of the Mercian kings. There was something heathen about it, Erik thought, with its patterns of swirling leaves and waves and old forgotten runes. But there was power in it too, and Erik knew that Aethelflaed cared too much for beauty to let it be despoiled. She had hung a great golden cross at the top of it instead, and two wooden panels flared out on either side of it like wings, carved intricately with scenes from the lives of Christian saints. Behind them, Erik knew, lay Aethelflaed’s council room and the stairs which led to the upper galleries where small sleeping chambers clung to the eaves like the nests of birds. 

To sit in Aethelflaed’s hall was to look always at some thing of beauty or marvel. From the wide timber beams that stretched below the hall’s pitched roof hung fine hammered bowls of tin and bronze, filled with oil and flickering with light. There were blown orbs of glass that caught and scattered the light, sometimes casting dazzling spots of color across the hall’s stone floor. The timbered walls were coated with bright white lime and embellished with patterns painted in Mercian blue, and the tapestries hung as rich and as thick as the feeling of the forest of autumn. 

But the most striking thing of all was the large panel of leaded glass that hung in the Southern gable wall, above the great wooden doors, spilling light into the hall at almost every hour of the day. It was a treasure as great as any trinket of gold, Erik knew, and it came at a cost - in both silver and safety. But Aethelflaed loved it, and the light and the warmth that it gave, and she chose to trust in the strength of the walls that surrounded her hall and the growing village of buildings that clustered around it. 

Erik sat in one of the cozy alcoves now, watching motes of dust glide in the beam of light that reached across the hall. It was too warm for a fire in the trenches, but Aelfwynn tended her own fire in a small iron pit in front of her. She tossed old pieces of straw into it as she listened to Erik’s story, watching each one flare up and gutter out with wide and curious eyes. 

“So finally,” he said, with a note of drama in his voice, “after the third night of this…I decided that I needed to discover who was disrupting my rest. I pretended to be asleep, with my cloak pulled up over my eyes, and I did not make a sound.

“Now, of course you know that my nose itched…” Erik twitched his nose and Aelfwynn giggled. “And my feet started to ache with wet cold…but I did not move a muscle! I waited…as still as a corpse…” Aelfwynn was enraptured by his telling, the low drawn out tone of his voice, the wideness of his eyes, as if he was living all over again. He never ceased to find joy in entertaining her. “And then I heard it…the slow, steady crack and crunch of footsteps from the wood. I could tell, it was getting closer…and closer…and when I thought it was right by my head…” Aelfwynn was breathless, her lips pressed tightly together. “I jumped up and shouted with a great cry!” 

“What was it?” She asked, in frantic rapture. “What was it?!” 

“It was a man!” 

“A _man_?!” She was confused. She had not been expecting that. 

“Except…he was not a man like me,” Erik explained, and Aelfwynn’s eyes narrowed. “He was smaller, but he was not a child either. I think…I think he was an elf!” Aelfwynn squealed in surprise and delight. 

“What did he do? When you jumped up?”

“Well, he was quite startled, I think. He turned on his heel and he ran back into the woods, but I chased him, and I think I might have caught him, except….” He looked away, pretending to feel embarrassed. “I swear it is true, but…I fear you will not believe it if I say it…

“Saaay it!” Aelfwynn crooned. “I want to knooooow!” 

Erik lowered his voice and spoke to her as if divulging a great secret. “I saw him run behind a tree, and….he did not appear from the other side! It was as if he vanished into a hole in the ground!” 

Aelfwynn gasped and clapped her hands together. “I…I believe it!” She assured. “Do you really think it was an elf?”

“I am all but certain of it, Lady Aelfwynn. I would not lie about such a thing!” 

“I know, I know,” she said, very seriously. There was a thoughtful look in her eye, as if she was assessing grave news delivered by a loyal thegn. It sometimes took the breath from his chest, to see how much she already took after her mother. “It is only…Father Oswey says that elves do not exist. He says that they are…wicked heathen lies!” 

Erik rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oswey is a priest. He knows nothing of elves.”

“This priest has ears, too.” Erik startled slightly and looked up to the see the dark-haired cleric standing in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back and a grim smile on his face. 

“Ah,” Erik said. “Oswey. Should you not be in the scriptorium? Hunched over parchment with a cramp in your hand?” 

“If only.” Oswey sighed. The man was serious and dull, but there was also a flash of dark humor to him that Erik sometimes enjoyed. “But it is time for Aelfwynn’s lesson.” 

Aelfwynn’s face was already turning sour and stubborn, her hands crossed over her chest and her mouth scowling as she shook her head. “I will not go, Father Oswey,” she declared, with the perfect authority of a child convinced of her own importance. “I am busy…with Erik.” 

Oswey almost manage to hide his chuckle. “I am sure you will have time to finish your business with Erik later. You know that lessons wait for no one, not even Lady Aelfwynn. Supper will be ready soon, and you need to write your letters five times before then.”

Aelfwynn let out a long suffering sigh and looked at Erik in desperation. He held his hands up with helpless surrender. “There is nothing I can do for you, Lady. But I will glare at the priest on your behalf!” He offered, fixing Oswey with a dark look. Aelfwynn laughed. Oswey rolled his eyes. 

“Come now,” he said, shepherding her off of her padded stool. “And you,” he turned to Erik. “The Lady Aethelflaed requests your company in her council chamber.” 

Erik’s ease died in his throat. “Ah.” Oswey fixed him with a parting look, eyebrows raised in victory. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not too pleased with these first two chapters, mostly because I feel like I’ve just info-dumped a lot rather than integrating the time jump in a more seamless way. I started writing this manuscript before finishing Fate’s Lady, and then, inevitably, things changed with the story of Fate’s Lady, so I had to do a lot of re-writing here to make it work. Anyway, point being, I’m unsatisfied with the sloppiness, but I’m just gonna shove these chapters out without fussing over them too much so that I can move forward with the story. Things pick up from here, I promise.


	4. An Utter Ass

“Birger tells me that you have news.” Aethelflaed was arrayed at the small table in the chamber, behind the wooden screen at the back of the hall. Birger and Aldun sat with her, and Audr spun in the corner. Aethelflaed was sure the younger woman listened with sharp ears, even though she effected her usual disinterested manner. 

Erik stood at the edge of the group, as if hoping to extricate himself as soon as possible from their company. The sight of his unease set a sharp feeling in her throat. She wished to scold him, but she did not. 

“I…do,” Erik said. “As does Birger…given that I discussed it with him in full on the ride from Bedaford.” Erik shot Birger with a dark look as he spoke.

Aethelflaed let out a measured sigh and controlled to urge to glare at him. “Birger assured me that I would be better served receiving council from you directly.” She spoke as gracefully as she could. 

Erik released a breath and managed to look her in the eye, for which she was grateful. “Guthred is dead, Lady. Northumbria…is without a king.” 

Aethelflaed felt the shock of the words. She controlled her face, managed and quelled the fear that the news stirred in her. It drifted to somewhere around her gut and settled there, cold and thick. “When?” 

“I learned only this week, Lady. It cannot have been more than a moon since he died. Stories of dead kings travel fast.” 

Aethelflaed rubbed her brow, closing her eyes for a moment in thought. “Yes. Yes, and…what of the situation in his absence, do you know?” She asked, looking back at Erik. He had taken the opportunity to revert his gaze to the floor. 

“I have heard nothing definitive, but I know that Guthred had no heir. The Northern lords will be circling like carrion crows to the kill.” 

“You have spent the last years tracking the Northern lords…who do you say will take it? If you had to guess?” Aethelflaed tried to keep her voice gentle and curious. She never wished to command him, but it seemed impossible to speak to him as a friend, as she did with Birger and Audr.

Perhaps he heard the veiled plea in her voice. He looked back at her again and there was less frustration in his eyes. 

“There are only a few potential options,” he explained. “There is a Northman, Helgi. He has held Dunholm since Ragnar Ragnarsson died. And there is Aelfric of Bebbanburg, of course, although he has never shown much ambition for taking control of Jorvik himself.” 

“Then, it will be Helgi, you think?” 

“No…it will be Sigfrothr. I am certain of it,” he said, and Aethelflaed thought he seemed to tense and bristle as he spoke the man’s name. 

“Sigfrothr?” Her mind sparked slightly. “You have told me of him before, have you not? He is the Viking they call Redbeard?” 

“Yes, Lady. He has many men, and ships. He’s been raiding up the Humber and the Tweed for months. Half the petty Lordlings of Northumbria pay tithe to him already. It will easy for him to claim Jorvik now.” 

“I understand.” It was a grim situation, worse than Aethelflaed would have hoped. “Is he a foreigner? Sigfrothr?” She asked. “Or was he born in Northumbria?” 

Erik’s eyes creased as he looked up at her. “I’m not certain, Lady. He behaves like a foreigner, like a conquerer. But…he knows the land well. He moves as quick as a fish on the water and can vanish with his men into the woods on foot. I would not be surprised if he has lived in Angle-land for most of his life.”

There were many like that now - Northmen and Danes had been been born here, who had lived and grown in Angle-land, but who still kept their culture, their language, and religion. Birger was one, and Audr too. They were not all like Sigfrothr, Aethelflaed knew. Many wanted to settle, to know peace and prosperity, but were caught between the wish for a simple life and the dreams of Viking conquest that still flared among their kin. 

Sigfrothr, though….he was dangerous, a threat to the peace. _A threat to Mercia_. Aethelflaed felt the weight of war settle around her shoulders, her mind spinning out into the future like a fishermen’s net.

“Lady…?” She looked up to see Erik staring at her. Birger cleaned his nails with his knife, unfazed. He was more used to her long lapses of thought than Erik was. 

She blinked and collected herself. 

“What do you suggest we do?” 

Erik nearly looked behind himself, as if to see if there was someone else she addressed.“Me, Lady?”

“Yes, Er— Yes, Thurgilson.” She controlled the flustered feeling in her chest. “What do you suggest?” 

“Shall…shall I have the battle plans drawn up directly then?” He asked, in obvious jest. 

Aethelflaed felt her jaw set. The temperature in the room seemed to chill slightly. 

“For what purpose do I retain your services in Jorvik, if you cannot advise me on the best course of action when I need it?” She did not mask her frustration. Audr’s hands stilled on her spinning. 

Erik’s face was pale. His eyes cast around the room as if taking stock - Birger, Audr, Aldun. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “I think we all know the reason for that, Lady.” 

Aethelflaed stood, letting out a reckless sigh. “Thank you for your…counsel, Thurgilson. I trust you will join us for supper, if you do not have more…pressing concerns.” 

“If my Lady commands it…” 

Aethelflaed did not temper her glare. “It was an invitation, not a command. I’m sure Lady Aelfwynn will be grateful for company.” 

And she swept out of the room, before her anger could break into cruelty, or _God forbid.…_ tears. 

The supper was set with an easy, casual comfort. It was always like this, when the household was small. It almost reminded Erik of home - of home long ago - when he would eat with Siegfried, and his parents, and his sister Odni, around the table in their small, untidy hall. It had been little more than an overgrown farmhouse. But he had been happy then. 

He felt almost vulnerable now, in this easy comfort, like he was intruding on a family he did not belong to. The children sat in a boisterous cluster at one end of the table, and Oswey’s boring blessing was cut short by a scolding for the wee bastard Finric when the boy started blowing bubbles in his milk, and then…. _spitting it out_ at Aelfwynn in little jets of white foam. Erik couldn’t help by laugh at the priest’s frustration. 

“Quite a show back there, eh?” Birger spoke from his right hand. 

Erik’s eyes had been drifting down the hall, to where some servants ate at a small table set up beside the kitchen door. The face of Brione, the wealh woman, flashed up quickly, as if she could sense his gaze. He looked away without meeting her eye. 

“What?” He asked, turning to Birger to cover the moment. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“With Lady Aethelflaed. You were…an utter ass.”

Erik’s pulse quickened a bit. He hoped his face was not flushed with shame like he imagined it was. He had not meant to be an utter ass. He never did. But sometimes, something hard and painful reared up inside him, unbidden. It was not her fault. It was… 

“I am weary. From the ride. That is all.” His words were clipped in his throat.

Birger chewed his food loudly in response. “Hmm.” 

“I will make amends,” Erik said, desperate for the conversation to end. “I will apologize to her. I…promise.” 

Birger merely raised an eyebrow and said nothing. 

There was a sharp tug at Erik’s left sleeve and he looked down to see Aelfwynn’s bright face at his elbow. She had dragged her stool down the length of the table and perched up on it now, by his side. 

“Can I help your Ladyship?”

“Yes,” she said, in perfect seriousness. She had come prepared. “I was thinking of the elf. And what we must do about him.” Her high pitched voice carried across the table, and Oswey looked up at her words. Erik was not sure whether he should shush her, or goad her into speaking louder to annoy the priest. 

“What should we do about him?” 

“We must leave an offering, I think!” She declared, as if this were the obvious thing in the world. “Audr says you must leave offerings for the elves, so they are happy, and free from mischief!” 

Audr’s eyes widened at Aelfwynn’s words and she looked shiftily towards Oswey, who sat beside her. The priest’s face was free of expression. Aethelflaed glanced between them all with serene amusement. 

“But, Lady…” Erik explained to Aelfwynn. “The elf I saw was many miles from here. Several days ride. We could not leave an offering for him there.” 

“Hmmm….” Aelfwynn thought for a long moment. “Then we shall find an elf mound here, and leave an offering. I’m sure the elves that live here can pass it along, on the…elf roads.” She waved her hand in a gesture of confidence. 

“The elf mounds? Do you know of such places?” 

Aelfwynn gave him a look which suggested that he was very foolish for not knowing of such places. “Of course. Audr has shown me the elf mound in the Northern wood…” 

Audr’s spoon clattered against her bowl, and she glared at Aelfwynn, her eyes bulging and her mouth narrowing into a thin line. It was the universal signal for _shut your damn mouth!_

But the damage was done. 

“Indoctrinating the children to heathenry, are you?” 

Audr loosed a great sigh, abandoning all pretense of discretion. Aelfwynn had the sense to look a little guilty for her carelessness.

“I still do not understand why he’s not better suited to the monastery.” Audr spoke to Aethelflaed as if the priest was not there. 

He spoke his reply to her directly. “I am, Audr, but someone must bring Christian learning to this heathen place.” 

Aethelflaed shot a glare at Oswey. “That is how rumors are started, Oswey. And you know that’s not true.” 

“Do I, Lady?” The priest’s voice was as dry as ash. 

“You should be careful,” Audr said. “Someone might slip and stab you with their carving knife.” She skewered a chunk a beef with the tip of her blade as she spoke.

Oswey sighed. “I shall have to add ‘impertinent women’ to my list of Tamworthig’s sins.”

“Is that not the title of your latest manuscript?” Aethelflaed asked, with one eyebrow raised and her mouth leveled in a flat line. “I should think you already an expert, given that you serve in the court of a so-called… ‘impertinent woman.’” Her lips quirked slightly as she spoke. 

“You must certainly not be speaking of yourself, Lady. Everyone knows you are as docile as a lamb.” 

At Oswey’s words, Birger choked on a gulp of his ale and coughed wetly across the table. Oswey’s mouth curled in disgust, but he gave a small triumphant nod in Aethelflaed’s direction, as if to say “ _see?_ ” Erik thumped Birger’s back until the man waved him off. Aethelflaed hid a smile in her cup. 

“If you are displeased with my temperament, Oswey, then perhaps you should serve for a season with my mother, Lady Aelswith. I think you’ll find me as gentle as a summer’s day in comparison.” 

Now Oswey’s mouth twitched, ever so slightly, barely breaking the expression of long-suffering disdain that he wore like a painted mask. “I find the summer quite uncomfortable, as you know. But….I suppose I will endure at Tamworthig for a _little_ longer, at least.” 

“That is good.” Aethelflaed placed her cup down with a resonant _thunk_. “I fear Audr would miss you too much if you left.” 

Audr spluttered and looked at Aethelflaed with wide, glaring eyes. Oswey laughed unexpectedly, a short, sharp sound full of surprised mirth. 

“We shall go to the elf mound,” Erik whispered to Aelfwynn, beneath the current of their conversation. “Tomorrow, if you wish it.” 

Aelfwynn’s eyes lit up. He was trying to please her, as much as he was trying to distract himself from the sight of Aethelflaed’s face, warm and flushed with pleasure at the jesting. He did not let himself think on the easy rapport she had with the priest. He spared nothing for the small seed of jealousy in his gut. He had no right to such thoughts. He had no claim to her…

“I have added more Norse words to my book.” She was speaking to him, across the table, leaning forward slightly to catch his eye. She made a small face at Aelfwynn, still seated beside him, and the girl let out a bright, bubbling giggle at her mother’s silliness. Erik swallowed. 

“Perhaps you could read them for me, and check my meanings?” 

She was offering an olive branch, he realized, for the tension that had bloomed between them before. She was trying to be kind, when it was him….it was him who had been _an utter ass_. It left him feeling sour with shame. 

Perhaps this was why his anger flared up sometimes, unbidden. He did not understand how she could be so stoic, so gentle, so _good_. She seemed so in control of herself. And he could barely hide his pain. 

He nodded stiffly. He would not be angry now. “I could do that, Lady,” he said.

“And perhaps you will add some of your own this time?” 

He looked away, trying to laugh. “You know I do not wish to do that.” His letters were foolish and childish, and he hated to think of her reading them and pitying his effort. 

“Perhaps one day I will convince you.” 

Erik let the conversation lapse, turning back to his meal. He could feel Aethelflaed’s eyes on him for a long moment, but he did not turn to meet them. Soon enough, she looked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to writer alittlebitalexis who has a whole chapter called "Impertinent Women" in their story "North of the Humber" (which is amazing, you should go read it!). I may have unconsciously picked up that phrasing from them, lol!


	5. If the Lady is Amenable

Aethelflaed lay on her bed, feeling the slow pulse of blood beneath her skin. She was still wet and warm from the hot water of the bath, and she reveled in the comfort of it, and the feeling of the soft wool dressing gown against her nakedness. The ache behind her eyes - the one that had dogged all night, until the ale had drowned it out - had returned. But she could live with that, if only for the sweet warmth beneath her skin now. 

“Gods!” Audr cried in pleasure, lowering herself into the small copper tub. “Call me a dirty peasant from the swamps…but I will never take for granted the pleasure of a warm bath.”

Aethelflaed laughed, rolling her eyes. “You are not a dirty peasant. And I don’t think anyone ever takes a hot bath for granted. It is still warm?” Audr wouldn’t allow a bath to be drawn for her specially, but she held no qualms about using the warm water when Aethelflaed was done with it. 

“Warm enough for the likes of me…” 

Aethelflaed laughed again, and they lapsed into an easy silence, punctuated by the sounds of Audr splashing and sighing in the water. Aethelflaed did not let thoughts of Guthred and Sigfrothr, of Northumbria and Jorvik interrupt. She held them back from her mind as if brandishing a flaming log against a pack of night-ghasts. 

But in truth, they did not sit as heavy on her gut as the thought of Erik, and of his strange anger, which seemed reserved for her and her alone. She swallowed, trying to drown the ache of it in her chest. 

“Do you lie with Erik?” She said the words without thinking, and regretted them instantly. Audr made a small choking sound in response. 

“What?!”

“Nevermind…I’m sorry.”

“You are joking, right?” Audr was laughing now. “You know he is like a brother to me. Like a…. _much_ older brother.” 

“Oh.” Aethelflaed let out a breath. “I was only wondering. He always seems so pleased to see you.” 

Audr sighed and gave Aethelflaed a hard, searing look. 

Audr had grown up in the passing years. She had always been precocious, if somewhat plain, as a young girl. But she had become something of a beauty. She had a sharp, almost hooked nose and a pointed chin, softened by round cheeks and kind eyes. Her red-brown hair tumbled and curled wildly around her face, like scraggly trees on a windswept cliff. It was sometimes hard to look away from her when she spoke, for her eyes lit up with a cleverness and her mouth was wide and expressive. Aethelflaed knew many of the men in the court pined for her. 

“Would it bother you?” Audr asked. 

“Hmm?” 

“Would it bother you? If Erik lay with me, or anyone else in the court?” 

Aethelflaed thought for a long moment, although she knew the answer already. She did not wish to say it out loud. It filled her with shame, although she couldn’t say why. 

But she never needed to say her thoughts to Audr. The girl saw through her, as though she was a pane fine clear glass. 

“Does Erik know? That it would bother you?” 

Aethelflaed tried to laugh, but it came out as a pathetic grunting noise. She coughed to cover it. “We do not speak about things like that.” She was silent for a long moment. “He does not wish to speak to me at all, most of the time.” 

Audr’s brow was creased, and she opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment, a knock came on the door, quick and sharp. 

“Lady Aethelflaed?” Aldun’s voice drifted through the Oak panels, and Aethelflaed wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her before peeking out the door. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s your thegn - Erik - I mean, Thurgilson.” Aldun stammered slightly. He never seemed to understand exactly who Erik was, or what name he should be given. It didn’t matter really. Erik’s true name was only forbidden to Aethelflaed. “He requests your presence, in your council chamber, if you are amenable. He was certain to say: “Only if the Lady is amenable,” and not to press you, and said, it is not of great importance either way.” 

Aethelflaed sighed, her chest tight with nervousness. “Well, with an invitation like that…” 

“Shall I tell him “No,” then?” 

Aethelflaed smiled. “No, Aldun. I’ll be down shortly. Thank you.” 

She closed the door and turned back to Audr. Her belly felt like a pack of moths, boiling around a flame. Audr’s face bobbed above the surface of the water, her hair streaming down her neck in wet rivulets. She looked at Aethelflaed with her eyebrows raised. 

“Sounds like he wants to speak with you after all.” 

It was strange to be alone with him, even in the stiff formality of the council chamber. It had been ages since they stood together in uneasy silence like this. 

Erik leaned against the table, fiddling with a clump of papers in his hand. His body was half painted in shadow; his gold hair gleamed in the low light. He was like a line of ink on a page of bright vellum. 

“You wished to speak to me?” Aethelflaed had dressed in a hurry, and coiled her hair into a rough braid with Audr’s help. She was glad for the long veil covering her head. Even with it, she felt half undone. 

Erik glanced up, a fleeting smile flickering on his face. His shuffled the papers again with tense hands. “I…I have written some Norse words for you, Lady.” He reached out, handed the papers to her, and retreated quickly, letting his arm fall back to his side. 

Aetheflaed flipped through the pages, speechless. There must have been…twenty words there, each rendered in a painstaking, trembling script, the neatest she had ever seen him write. It must have taken an enormous effort. 

He spoke up, as if her silence made him nervous. “I have the English equivalents beside them, there…although, I fear you may not understand either tongue in my hand. It is strange…trying to find the right letters. You pick one, thinking it right, but then it seems another will do, and…I am sorry it is messy. I fear I should have done it on wax, rather than waste your parchment. ”

Aethelflaed shook her head, still in awe at the bundle in front of her. She noticed one word which had been crossed out, rewritten, crossed out again - the English word for “daughter.” He had struggled to find the letters for the hard sound at the back of the throat. The Norse version was not so different, it seemed, but it was simpler. 

“It is the same with all scribes,” she said, looking up with unbridled delight. “One man’s choice of letters may seem laughable to another. And we, poor readers, must struggle through it all. My father wished to amend it…in his schools. But old habits die slowly.” 

Erik shrugged, as if to leave such matters to her concern. 

“This is…this is incredible, I cannot thank you enough, Erik —”

His head snapped up at the sound of his name. She had not meant to say it, she had been so flushed with pleasure and excitement, it had slipped out, as easy as a breath. 

But now the moment stretched around them, taut and tight like the skin of a drum. And she could not help herself. She pushed it. 

“Erik.” She said it on purpose this time, because she could. She said it with the pure pleasure of feeling the shape of it in her mouth, of planting it like a seed in the silence between them. 

But Erik’s face shuddered, his eyes crashing to the ground. He brought a hand up to cover his face slightly, and Aethelflaed realized, with rising dread, what she had done. 

“I’m sorry. I’m — I shouldn’t —”

“ _I’m_ sorry, Lady.” He cut across her words with force. He still did not meet her eye. “For earlier, at the council. I spoke in anger, and…it was ill done. I was…it was my fault.” The speech came in the staggered sureness of something practiced. 

Aethelflaed let out a trembling breath. “I forgive you.” 

How could she not, after what had just happened? He had only spoken to her in anger and rudeness. He had not said her name, like a plea or a sigh. He had not said it on purpose just to rise her, as if he owned her, as if he held control over her heart. 

No. _She_ had done that. 

“Thank you, for this. Truly.” 

He nodded, his eyes distant in retreat. 

“I must leave soon, Lady.” 

“Oh.” Aethelflaed flicked the corner of a sheet with her thumb, and the ticking of it was the only sound in the chamber. “Aelfwynn will grieve your parting.”

“Yes.” His body seemed tenser, like a spear leaned against the table. “But you know why? Why I must leave?” 

She nodded, feeling the shame rise again in her throat. “Tomorrow, then?” 

“No.” He gave a sad smile. “I have promised tomorrow to Aelfwynn. I’ll leave the day after.” 

She nodded again. “And where will you go?” 

“North. To meet with my contacts in Jorvik. I would get more news from them, of Sigfrothr’s position.” 

Aethelflaed felt the tension ease a bit. This was more comfortable ground - speaking of politics and tactics, as if he were any of her advisors. 

“And you think I should wait? For news of Sigfrothr?” 

He nodded, and she could see the measured regret in his face, perhaps for his harsh words earlier. He spoke in kindness now. “I do. We must have more information before we act. If Sigfrothr plans for war, we will only play into hands by acting too brashly. He will want you to run to him, like a mad dog to a fight. Mercia is stronger than that.” 

“Thank you, Thurgilson. That is good council. I will heed it.” 

Erik bowed his head with a formal gesture. “With your leave, I will take my rest.” 

“Goodnight,” she said. But he had already turned to leave. 

Aethelflaed walked up the stairs in a dark haze. She felt like a ghost haunting her own hall. She did not want to think over the scene with Erik. She did not want to taste her bitter shame again. She padded down the galley to the chamber where the children slept and cracked the door open gently. A single candle cast a low light over Alba, who sat in one corner, spinning from a great mound of carded wool and humming like a bee. The nursemaid looked up as Aethelflaed pushed in, and then nodded, unsurprised. 

“They’re all asleep, Lady,” she whispered, and Aethelflaed heard the soft sounds of their breaths, rising and falling like incongruous tides. She moved over to the cot where Aelfwynn lay, snuggled close against Stiorra, her thumb held tight in her mouth. 

Aethelflaed marveled at the perfection of her. It was as if she’d been carved from pearl. Her fine hair dusted over her face like strands of spun gold thread. 

“I think I will take her with me tonight,” Aethelflaed said to Alba, keeping her voice as quiet as a breath. The nursemaid merely nodded in assent. Aethelflaed scooped Aelfwynn up in her arms, extricating her from her tangle with Stiorra. 

The older girl blinked and stirred. “Auntie Aethel? Is that you?” 

“Hush now.” 

“Child-napping again, are we?” 

“You’ll wake her with your foolish talk, and then she’ll make a fuss. We both know she likes you better than me.” Stiorra merely smiled and turned back to her pillow with a small look of triumph. 

Aethelflaed turned away with Aelfwynn - she was getting _so heavy_ \- and carried her, carefully, out the door and down the hall to her own chamber. 

The room was quiet and still. Audr was not in her cot, but it did not bother Aethelflaed. She was grateful to not have to speak to anyone. She nestled down in her bed, holding Aelfwynn close against her, like a shield, like a treasure, like her own heart. 

She fell asleep with her face buried against her daughter’s golden head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading!!!


	6. Nor Will I Love Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluff, a little bit of angst, a whole fucking ton of character (re-)introductions.

Aethelflaed woke early. There was a stiff, pulsing ache in her back, and in the hollows behind her knees. Aelfwynn stirred beside her but did not wake, and it became suddenly impossible for Aethelflaed to find a comfortable position. She rose up from bed, restless from pain, and dressed in a simple shift and an overgown of green linen. Audr had returned in the night, and slept like the dead in her own cot. Aethelflaed did not wish to wake her, so she simply pinned a veil over her messy hair and fixed it with a circlet of woven gold thread. 

With her belt of pouches and keys cinched around her waist, she felt enough like the Lady of a great house, if not quite a Mercian queen. It would have to do. 

It was still quiet in the hall below, or as quiet as a hall could be when filled with the stirring snores of men stretched on pallets to sleep. In an alcove close to the high table, Birger and Erik rested. Aethelflaed glanced at them only long enough to see Erik’s brow, rippled with some dream worry, and the pale skin of his chest where his tunic lay askew. Then she looked away quickly, and swallowed. 

The kitchen was a comfort in comparison. There was always some bustle of activity within it, even in the early hours of the morning, when everyone slept. The servants hushed slightly as she entered, stifling their bickering and bantering, but then Brione smiled and strode towards her in greeting. 

“Lady! Good morning!” She beckoned Aethelflaed closer to the hearth fire. “Are you hungry? There are fresh rolls nearly ready off the fire stone.” 

“That sounds lovely,” she said, although in truth she had no appetite. The hum of conversation picked back up, and Aethelflaed breathed in the simple pleasure of it - the warmth of the fire, the yeasty smell of baking bread and brewing ale, the easy comfort of people with simple lives, and simple worries. 

“I have bad news, I’m afraid,” Brione said, shattering the peace. 

“What?!” 

She must have seen the look of panic on Aethelflaed’s face, for she eased her voice in comfort. “It is not so dire. It is the ale, Lady.” 

She led Aethelflaed over to the back of the larder, where a line of barrels stood in the shadows. Aethelflaed could smell the wet brew of them in the air. Brione removed the lid from one and dipped a small wooden cup inside, then offered the sample to Aethelflaed. 

Aethelflaed took a draught, and immediately made a face. “Euuurgh. It’s gone sour!” 

“Three barrels, I’m afraid,” Brione said, with regret. 

Aethelflaed thought of the scores of thirsty men who drank in her hall each night and day. “God preserve us.” 

Brione laughed, wrinkling the old scar across her cheek. “I started three more yesterday, to replace them. But we may run out briefly, within the moon.” 

Aethelflaed sighed. “It is what it is. At least we shall have plenty of vinegar. We can water it down and add fruit to it, if we’re really in a pinch.” 

“Aye, Lady. And I think the cheese-makers should move to the back larder.” She nodded to a table across the room, where great trenches of milk sat souring in the air. “My mother used to tell me the spirits might get confused. They might find the wrong footing, and try to make cheese from the ale and beer from the milk!” 

Aethelflaed laughed. “Whatever you say, Brione. If the dairy maids protest, send them to me.” 

Brione nodded and smiled in gratitude. 

Aethelflaed was grateful for Brione’s happiness. She had once thought her efforts towards the wealh woman ill-done. She had lifted Brione from enslavement, only for her to be tormented by Aethelred. She had feared the woman would never forgive her for it. But Brione was happy now, her children all but grown, safe and prosperous on Aethelflaed’s estate. There had been a period - two or three years ago - when Brione had been grieved, almost angry, and every conversation between the two of them had felt edged with ice. But things were better now, Aethelflaed thought. 

She felt eased enough to take the fresh roll Brione offered her, and to eat it with newly churned butter. She felt ready to face the day. 

Erik woke to the clatter and scrape of wood on stone. Birger crouched over him, shaking his shoulder roughly. 

“Oy. Get up. They’re changing over the hall, and you’re still out on the floor like a sick foal.” 

“Eh?” Erik sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. 

Birger snorted. “What are you, a spoiled aetheling? Who taught you to sleep in like this?” Erik laughed, confused and still half-in-sleep. “I don’t know. Bad dreams, I suppose.” 

Birger was right. The hall was mostly cleared already, the garrison men gone to their posts. A few thegns still huddled in the alcoves around cups of warm wine and steaming rolls. A cold draft stole across the floor, drawn by the vents which had been opened wide to clear the smoke from the night. 

“Shit.” Erik stood quickly, gathering up his bedroll with sloppy, sleep-stiff arms. He should have slept in the stables, where no one could find him passed out after dawn. Not that Birger would’ve allowed that. 

A serving woman pushed by him, breaking down the low bench that had served as his bed. She glared at him in reproach for fouling her schedule. 

“Sorry,” Erik said, stumbling across the stones towards the door. 

Birger followed, plucking at Erik’s tunic. “What, no breakfast?” 

“Eurgggggh.” Erik felt the dread gather in his gut, but Birger was insistent. He pulled Erik across the hall, through the curtained door that led into the kitchens. 

“Brione!” Birger called. “Any bread left for a pair of lazy thegns?” 

The wealh woman’s head appeared around a corner, her eyes bright with mirth…until she saw Erik. Then her expression hardened, like a grim slab of slate. 

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

Birger guffawed. “The man’s pale as a linen sheet! Have pity, Brione.” He was utterly oblivious, the fool. 

“The fresh rolls are gone,” Brione said, her voice low and cold. “You can have the stale ones from yesterday.” She tipped two loaves into Birger’s hands, ignoring Erik completely. 

“What, no butter?” Birger cried. But she had already vanished back around the bend. Birger shook his head. “She’s a tempestuous one, that. Sweet as a summer’s day one moment, and cold as ice the next!”

“Women,” Erik said dryly. “They’re unfathomable.” And he exited the kitchen with great speed before Birger could protest. 

The morning passed with ease, to Aethelflaed’s surprise and pleasure. The grinding ache behind her bones had lessened somewhat after breakfast, and she had taken air in the orchard with Aelfwynn and Finric. The apple trees were bursting with sweet blossoms, and the bees swung drunk and dizzy to bough to bough. Soon the Ascension would be upon them, when Oswey would beat the bounds with Rogantide blessings. The peasants would make love beside fires in the open fields, and Oswey and Aethelflaed both would look the other way. _So must it be, in this half-heathen land_. So it would be, if war didn’t find them first. 

Finric and Aelfwynn competed constantly to climb the Apple trees, racing to see who could reach the top first. They scrambled over each other, like desperate little devils, and Aethelflaed watched with nervous unease until the inevitable happened: they both stood on a weak bough at the same time, and it came crashing down with a great rustling crack. 

There was a loud cry, and Aethelflaed and Alba ran over to the mess of leaves and splintered branches, fearing a broken bone - or worse - but both children were unfazed. They simply giggled sheepishly at each other. 

Instead, Witger the gamekeeper came around the corner, hobbling on his weak knees, with fire and fury in his eyes. 

“You! Little devils! You! Wee heathen bastards! Do you know how long it took to grow that bough? Do you how many Apples have been lost by your foolishness?! You — scoundrels! I will have your bones for my breakfast—!” At that moment, Alba coughed lightly, and Witger looked up to notice Aethelflaed. The words choked in his throat. 

“Lady —- Aetheflaed —I — did not see you! I beg your pardon—!” He lowered his head in a deep bow. “I — did not mean to…scold them so!” 

“Really?” Aethelflaed asked, suppressing a smile. “It seems you were doing a very fine job of it.” 

Witger continued to choke on his own mortification.

“They deserved it,” she said. “Although… ‘wee heathen bastard’ is, perhaps, a _bit_ untoward for the Lady Aelfwynn, rightful heir to the noble kingdom of Mercia.” The insult struck a _little_ too close to home for Aethelflaed’s comfort. 

“Of course, Lady, begging your pardon, very untoward! Very untoward!” 

The children were oblivious to poor Witger’s plight. They seemed alert, as if taken with some mysterious awareness, their eyes fixed on the hill behind Witger’s back. 

“Witger —” Finric’s fairy-flute voice cut across the man’s blubbering. “Witger —are those—-”

“PUPPIES?!?” Aelfwynn screamed loud enough to split the air. Three little balls of gray-blue fluff were bounding through the grass towards them.

“Ah…yes!” Witger said, rubbing his head sheepishly. “The bitch Whitetooth has whelped her litter. I meant to bring a message today, Lady, but it seems you’ve found me first!” 

“PUPPIES!!” Aelfwynn cried again, as the dogs converged on her, wagging their tales in excitement. She scooped one up and held it towards Aethelflaed, nearly weeping with hysterical joy. “Puppies…puppies…puppies…!” 

Aethelflaed laughed. “Yes, my love, I see! They are delightful.” 

Aelfwynn’s breath was short and staggered, as if she had just run a great distance. “I…must…tell….ERIK!” And she took off like an arrow, puppy still in hand. Finric scooped the other two puppies up, with sloppy desperation, and ran off after her, nearly dropping one on its head as he did. 

“Wait!” Witger cried. “Children, wait! The dogs—-!” And then he loosed a great sigh and hobbled along in their wake. Aethelflaed and Alba were left to walk back alone. 

The hall was nearly empty on her return. The household was busy in the rhythm of its work. She sat over her ledgers for a long while, taking account of every burh along the Northeast border. How many men did each garrison hold? Were their walls made of stone, or wooden rampart? How many swords would be needed to defend each fortress in the case of a raid? In the case of a siege? And how many people would die, if they fell?

It was grim work, but it was her work to do.

In the event of all out war, she would likely be facing the Danes of Jorvik and the Five Boroughs combined. She had won an uneasy peace with the Viking lords of Deoraby and Hreopandune - it probably would be better called a _stalemate_ than a peace. But she had no doubt that they would rally to Sigfrothr’s cause if they thought it would suit their own desires. 

In that case…she could mobilize the Southern fyrds, to hold off an attack from the Northeast. But that would leave the South exposed to raiders up the Thames, and Edward still did not have East Anglia under firm control. The West might be better used, but only if the Welsh could be counted on for peace. And the Welsh could never be counted on for peace…

Aethelflaed sat back in her chair with a sigh and heard the sound of raised voices, echoing in the hall. She startled from her seat, nearly running from the council chamber, only to find…Clufweart striding towards her - Aethelflaed’s peasant runaway turned loyal scout. The girl was closely followed by a man in a gray cloak. 

Clufweart’s dark braid swung behind her like a messy rope as she walked; her boots were still muddy from the road. She looked as pleased as a feral cat bringing back a juicy kill. 

“Lady Aethelflaed!” She cried. “I found this man sneaking towards the fortress!” 

“I was not _sneaking!_ ” The man protested. “I was _approaching_. With a message!” 

He drew down his hood and Aethelflaed laughed. Clufweart was nothing if not overzealous. 

Edmund lowered his dark head in a formal bow. “Lady Aethelflaed,” he said. “I am pleased to find you well.” 

“Clufweart, this is Edmund, he is a loyal man to my brother Edward. He is a friend.” Clufweart looked incredulous. “A good scout must know her friends from her enemies. Edmund’s face is welcome here.” 

Clufweart merely narrowed her eyes. “You can never be sure, with these Wessex spies.” 

Aethelflaed laughed again. “Well, she has you there, Lord Edmund. Tell me - what news does my brother seek of Tamworthig?” 

“None, Lady,” Edmund said. “Or rather, the King shall seek it himself. I rode ahead to bring tidings of his arrival, but he is no more than a day behind me.” 

Aethelflaed reeled, thinking of the larder, and the three barrels of soured ale, and their replacements not yet brewed, and… “A _day_?! To prepare for the King’s arrival? Edmund - we did not know to expect such a host!” 

Edmund reached out a hand in placation. “Be at ease, Lady. He comes with only ten men. He would have sent more warning but it is…a matter of some discretion.” He looked at Clufweart, as if unwilling to disclose more in front of her. 

Aethelflaed let the news settle over her. This was a week for surprises, it would seem. First news of Guthred, and Sigfrothr, and now this…

She felt suddenly very tired. She swallowed back the ill taste that rose in her throat. 

“Lady?” Edmund reached out a steadying hand, and Aethelflaed came back to herself. She noticed Clufweart still lingering, glaring at Edmund with her wide, feline eyes. She nodded at the girl in dismissal, then sank down onto the cushioned bench of the nearest alcove. 

Edmund perched tentatively beside her. 

“Tell me truthfully, Edmund,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose and trying to keep the dizziness at bay. “Does he bring ill tidings? I would prepare myself….” 

“No, Lady. No,” Edmund assured. “Nothing like that. I believe his news may please you.” 

She relaxed a bit, but there was a meaningful note to Edmund’s tone that tickled at her warningly. She had not seen eye to eye with her brother of late. She feared his good tidings would bring more trouble for her in the end. 

At that moment, Erik walked through the hall with Aelfwynn in tow. Aethelflaed could hear her daughter’s high-pitched voice echo across the flagstones. 

“…and ride out to the wood, and leave offerings? For the elves?” 

“Yes, aelska,” Erik said, the picture of attentive patience. “Let us ready the horses.” 

Aethelflaed was pleased to see there were no puppies in tow. Perhaps Witger had retrieved them successfully. 

Erik looked up, as if he could feel Aethelflaed’s eyes on him, and her body tensed on instinct. She realized suddenly that Erik had never been at Tamworthig at the same time as Edmund. They had never met. The skin of her neck became very hot. 

But Erik’s eyes only flashed for a short moment on the two of them, huddled in the alcove, before he turned back to Aelfwynn and vanished from sight. 

Edmund gave a snort, breaking the tension of the moment. 

“Do all your Danish thegns act as nursemaid to your child?” He asked. It was clear he meant it as a joke. Aethelflaed gave a weak attempt at a laugh. She had become very practiced in hiding her true emotions. Sometimes she did not even know what she truly felt, only what she was _supposed_ to feel, projecting the expected reaction out without even thinking of the truth of her own heart. It always left a hollow feeling inside of her, like the sound of a poorly forged bell. 

“He is teaching her to ride,” she explained. “I think it is good. A child should have many people who care for her.” 

Edmund’s face twisted with incredulity. “Could a good Mercian not do the same job?” He was settling back into it - his pompousness, the slight note of cavalier mockery that always bled into his words when he was not trying to play the good and noble thegn. Or perhaps he thought that’s what a thegn should be. He not always been like this, she thought, in the years she had known him. But he reminded her more and more of Aethelred, as time went on. 

“He _is_ a good Mercian,” she said. “He serves loyally.” She wondered if he noticed that she did not speak Erik’s name.

Edmund shook his head, as if he could not fathom her and would not try. “You should consider true fosterage for Aelfwynn. My sister, for instance, would be pleased to raise her namesake for a time.” 

“The child is still too young,” Aethelflaed insisted. “And your sister spends half her time here anyway, it would make little difference.” 

“It is the proper way of things, Aethelflaed.” 

This, too, was familiar. He took the liberty to press things on her whenever he could - plans for Aelfwynn, plans for Aethelflaed herself, what she _should_ do, what she _must_ do. She never doubted that her brother wound his own schemes for her from Wessex, and that he encouraged Edmund to plant them in her head. 

“I am saying ‘No,’ Edmund.” She spoke with all the authority she could muster amid her nausea. 

He cast his eyes down, caught in his own game. “Yes, Lady.” 

This was the cost, of even a simple affair, a dalliance, like the one they had shared: this grating down upon her agency, her dignity. They had never been true lovers - not _full_ lovers - her and Edmund, but it made little difference. She could not give any part of herself without a man thinking he owned her. It had been different, in a way, with Erik. But even then… _no_. She could not think on it now. 

She stood. “Rest well in my hall, Edmund,” she said. “I will await the King’s news on the morrow.” 

“Lady.” His eyes were alight with something - a question, a hope, perhaps. But Aethelflaed turned away. She had not invited him to her bed in months, and she did not intend to change that now. 

She wished he had not come. She wished she did not have to see his face, expectant and too-handsome, in the pretty sort of way she thought Aethelred had soured for her. But he was here now, and the King was coming, and there was no one to answer for it all but herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I think most of the important OCs have been introduced/re-introduced. Sorry for the slog. Hopefully you’re enjoying the ride and feeling all the DRAAAAAAAMA that’s building up. 
> 
> also, P.S. I try to be an enlightened sexual being and do not actually believe that P in V sex is the only way to be “true lovers” - this is just Aethelflaed’s 9th century perspective on the matter. 
> 
> Also, P.P.S. because I'm apparently *that bitch,* I made a playlist for this story. Basically just all the songs I listen to while I’m at work writing chapties in my head. They’re mostly just dark old folk songs in 4-part harmony about true love lost and found, but there’s a few random ones about poisoned beef and creepy old men thrown in for good measure. There’s some modern folk in there too. Listen or no, but if you’re curious about the occasional weird chapter titles, that’s what’s going on. 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6sUqH3d8QhSJQ87H2SJOAb


	7. The Hound and the Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have an update!!! it's pretty short...but I'll post another one tomorrow. 
> 
> also, fyi, I've edited Chapter One, post publication, to remove some redundancy with a scene in this chapter, but I don't think many people read it before I edited it so you're probably good. Just so you know. (That’s what I get for not having several chapters lined up before I post!) 
> 
> Also also, this is one of my favorite chapters I’ve written….ever…maybe! I just love Erik and Aelfwynn so much. I hope you like it!

They rode beneath a fair blue sky. The air was sun-warmed, with just a taste of a cool breeze. Erik felt his breath come easier, mimicking the steady rhythm of his horse beneath him. Aelfwynn rode beside him, on a fat grey pony, as the village of Tamworthig retreated in their wake, swallowed by the gathering wood. 

Erik had asked if the other children wished to come along. 

“Stiorra and Uhtred are busy with their lessons,” Aelfwynn had said, with much earnestness. 

“And Finric? And Osbert?”

But she had merely said “ _Gah!_ ,” waving her hand in a gesture of dismissal, and Erik had realized that she wished to preserve the outing for herself alone. He did not push the issue after that. 

Now the sun’s light was shaded by the newly opened leaves of the wood’s trees, and the trunks and branches crowded in close around them like eager grasping hands. Erik dismounted, and led his horse and Aelfwynn’s through the thickening brush. She remained mounted, like a tiny queen. 

“Are you sure you know the way?” He asked, starting to doubt what was appearing to be an ill-formed plan. 

“Of course,” she said, slightly aloof. “We’ve passed the fairy pools, and the Grandmother Oak…” she read from a map in her own mind. “And it should be…just there! See it?” She pointed eagerly off the path, and Erik saw the small mound of stones, beneath the outstretched bough of a withered old Hawthorn. 

The sight of it set the hairs standing slightly on his neck. 

The mound had clearly been tended. It’s top was free of leaves and other debris, and there were votives nestled in the cracks and crevices of the stones: stumps of candles, and little carved figures, and clumps of cloth and hair, half-rotten with age. Beside it, a long flat stone had been buried upright, its face chiseled with the shapes of old fading runes. 

Erik broke his gaze away from it, and turned to help Aelfwynn down from her saddle. He tethered the horses, and they walked over together to kneel in front of the mound. 

“The villagers must come here often enough,” he said, pointing at the little objects secreted away in the mound. 

“Yes,” Aelwynn said. “Audr says that there’s an old woman who lives in the Hawthorn tree, and grants wishes!” And she knocked on the tree’s trunk, with the careless ease of a child who thinks the Otherworld is always on her side. 

“Audr’s been telling you many tales.” 

“Yes.” 

“Does your mother know?” 

Aelfwynn looked up at him sharply, as if she suspected him of trying to trick her. “Mother says it is good to know the customs of the people.”

Erik laughed. “I reckon she’s right.” 

They sat like that, in a reverent sort of silence for several long moments, before Erik broke the peace. 

“Did you bring your offering?” He asked. 

Aelfwynn nodded, unfurling a little bundle of cloth buried in her lap. Inside it lay a small doll, roughly carved, with flaxen thread tied around its head in the form of hair. It had a tiny dress fashioned around it from a scrap of pink cloth. It was simple - a crude thing - but there was a well-loved quality to it, as if it had been warmed by hands many times. Erik felt his throat thicken a bit at the sight of it. 

“Do you know what you wish to say?” He asked, looking up at her, but she had already closed her eyes and was clearing her throat. She opened one eye to glare at him beadily, as if in reprimand for his interruption. He swallowed a laugh. 

“To the elves!” She started, pitching her voice in a high, formal tone. “I have an offering for…you. And for the elf who has been following my friend Erik. I am sure you know him. That elf, I mean. _And_ my friend Erik, probably. I give this offering, and ask that you protect…my friend Erik, and keep him safe, and make sure that _that_ elf - the one from before - who I’m sure you know - is…his friend.” 

She looked at Erik then, with a slight question in her eyes, and he nodded in support. 

“Good job,” he mouthed. 

“So, I give this doll, which is actually supposed to be _me_ , so I figure that makes it a good offering —”

Erik’s stomach went cold. “Wait—!” He reached out his hand to stop her, but the doll was already placed on the mound, settled firmly against the stone as if it had always been there. He could not remove it now.

“What?!” Aelfwynn asked, deeply disturbed. 

Erik’s heart raced heavy in his chest. “Nothing,” he said, trying to cover the moment. “Nothing, I —” 

_I did not want you to give yourself to the elves._

But he could not say that. 

“I — I reckon you did it right. It’s been…a long time, since I’ve made an offering. I wanted to be sure.” 

Aelfwynn tossed her head, as if shaking off his words, and his weird, awkward fear. “Well perhaps you should leave offerings more often, and then you won’t be _followed_ _by elves_.” 

Erik forced a laugh. “I’m sure you’re right.”

And he helped her onto her horse, and they rode away from the mound, and Erik tried to swallow the fear that had bloomed inside him like a poisonous flower. 

His mood eased as they left the wood behind, and when the sky opened up around them again, he felt the heavy press of the mound lift from his mind. Aelfwynn had been silent and solemn for much of the ride back, but now her voice cut through the air like a high silver bell. 

“Did you know my father?”

Erik turned to her sharply. “What?” 

“My father. Lord Aefelred?” 

He almost laughed at the silly way she said it, but he could not. 

“I…I did. Just a little. Not…really.” He didn’t know what to say. He dreaded what she would ask next. But she waved her hand in an impatient little gesture, as if to say, “ _oh, whatever,”_ and he found himself startled again. 

“Can I tell you something?” Her voice was slightly higher than usual, nervous and excited, as if she was about to share something special and private with him. 

“A secret?” He asked, trying to keep his voice easy and light. 

She shrugged. “I guess.” 

“You can tell me. Of course you can tell me.” 

She looked at him with a glint in her eye, mischief and —something else. “Sometimes….sometimes I wish that you were my father.”

Erik blinked and swallowed. He held himself from breathing in, for fear that it would come as a rattling gasp. Aelfwynn’s face creased with doubt. 

“It _is_ wicked,” she said, looking away. 

“What? No…I…” his words were stuck behind a dam. They were thick and wet and useless. Aelfwynn fixed him with a solemn look.

“Mother had the same face when I told her. Like she was sad at me.” 

“Your mother?” Erik spoke quietly, staring fixedly at the leather strapping of his horse’s reins. 

“Yes. And I asked her if I was wicked and she said no, I was not wicked, so I thought I would tell you, too, but now you are sad at me, and—” Her voice was welling up, her breath coming in shaky and gasping. She was about to burst into to tears, he realized. 

“No!” Erik reined his horse to a halt, and Aelfwynn’s followed. They were still, and it was Aelfwynn’s turn to look away, to stare at her saddle while fat tears slid down her cheeks and dripped into her lap. This strange mood of hers had been building since the mound. He knew it was his fault. 

“No, Aelfwynn. Your mother was right, you are not wicked. You are my favorite girl in the world. I…I would be so lucky to be your father.” 

Aelfwynn looked up, her face still wet. “Oh?” 

“Aelfwynn —” he started, not knowing what he would say, but knowing he needed to speak something gentle and truthful and real. “Do you…do you ever feel sad for no reason?” 

She thought for a long moment. She was so _serious_ sometimes, like a little sage, thinking so hard before she spoke. It was almost humbling to witness. 

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I think…I think I’m usually sad because of something. Like…when the hound ate my bird.” 

“Yes. Yes, I…suppose there is always a reason for the sadness. But sometimes it’s hard to explain, you know? Grown people, they…they get that sadness too. Like when you lost something you love…or someone. It is not your fault, Aelfwynn.” 

He could speak little more. He gave a small smile and turned, as if to spur his horse onwards, but Aelfwynn was looking at him with her pensive gray eyes, the tears drying on her cheeks. 

“The hound ate your bird too?” She asked. 

He laughed, a small, honest noise. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you could say that.” And he thought no one had ever spoken so much to the true shape of his heartache. 

The hall was tense upon their return. There was a strange current of energy, like the water in a barely boiling pot. The servants moved faster; their faces were more harried. Aethelflaed was nowhere to be seen. 

Aelfwynn held Erik’s hand as they walked through the hall. She was getting tired, and she was sucking her other thumb in her mouth as she often did when she was more of a sleepy child than a miniature princess. Erik stopped at the sight of Birger in a heated conversation with one of the garrison men. 

“…sleeping in the storehouse, like a common slave? Birger —!”

“It won’t be for long, Lefwic, I hope. I have no choice! They’re the King’s men, they take priority in the hall.” 

“King’s men, my ass! He’s not _my_ King, is he?!”

“Lefwic!” Birger spoke with a sharp warning. “Stand down, man! You and the others will endure for a few days without having your bedrolls personally warmed by pretty serving-women. Think of it as training, for when we’re next on campaign.” 

“ _I_ never get to go on campaign,” Lefwic protested. “I’m always left here, while you thegns have all the fun.” 

“Well then you’ll have the hall all to yourself when we’re next abroad, won’t you? Erik!” Birger caught Erik’s eye with a desperate, meaningful look and strode purposefully away from Lefwic, who was left grumbling to no one. 

“What’s going on here, Birger?” Erik asked, a knot of dread starting to form in his gut. 

Birger sighed. “King Edward will arrive tomorrow. We just got the news.” 

Aelfwynn’s thumb dropped from her mouth and her eyes widened, the tiredness vanishing from her face. “The King?!” 

“The King?” Erik echoed in dismay. 

“Oh, Erik!” She crooned. “You have to stay, you have to stay longer! There will be feasting, and games, and…oh—! The puppies! We shall have to show him the puppies! Do you think that’s why he’s come?” 

“To see the puppies?” Erik asked absently. His attention was caught by Aethelflaed as she strode out of the kitchens, her face pale and drawn. “Perhaps…” 

“Well, I’ll leave you two to your…planning,” Birger said, with an amused quirk to his mouth, and he turned to attend to some other business. 

“So you’ll stay?” Aelfwynn was asking insistently. “You’ll stay for a few more days? Please say you’ll stay!” 

Erik sighed, his gaze caught on the taut line of Aethelflaed’s body, as if she held some secret fear within her like a blade. 

“Just a few more days,” he said. He could almost hear the foreboding in his own words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it probably takes some suspension of disbelief to actually think that people wouldn’t notice Erik’s relationship with Aelfwynn and make assumptions. especially given the fact that a fair amount of people in the court / wider political world know at least bits and pieces of Aethelflaed and Erik's story at this point. 
> 
> but…you know…it’s fic! I'm trying to give you some fluff here! (*checks if this counts as fluff, discovers maybe not*) I just love them too much to give them a cold, distant, formal relationship. 
> 
> maybe it'll become an issue later, idk....(*goes back to feverishly plotting*)
> 
> Also, if Finan can love Aethelstan so much in Season 4 and not even be related to him, Erik can get away with this :P


	8. Edward Rex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like dysfunctional family reunions to get in the holiday spirit! Just kidding, family reunions are cancelled forever, obviously.

Edward brought more than ten men. He brought ten _warriors_ , and five serving men, and three priests. This was not including Edmund, of course, nor the three scouts still promised to return, nor the _nursemaid_ for that matter - a heavy-footed, red-haired woman who quickly bundled two children out of a cart upon their arrival. 

_Two children_. Aethelflaed had not been expecting that. 

“Welcome,” she said, hiding her surprise with a bow. “Welcome, Edward King, to our court at Tamworthig.” 

“Thank you, sister,” Edward said, and he embraced her with something like affection. “I pray Edmund found you, with news of our arrival.” 

Aethelflaed gave a strained smile. “He did.” 

“And you will know my son, Aethelstan.” The children shuffled forward, like small limp dolls, prodded forward by their dour nurse. Edward scooped the boy in front of him for Aethelflaed’s viewing. 

“Of course,” she said, more genuinely. Aethelstan was a skinny boy of two, with long dark hair and tired purple splotches below his eyes. He looked pale and frightened. “And this is your daughter, Eadgyth?’ Aethelflaed asked, turning towards golden-haired girl who stood beside him. 

“Yes.” Edmund’s voice was dismissive. “She does not speak much. She is sickly from the ride.” 

“Oh! Well, I have a very skillful leech in my court. I’m sure we can get Eadgyth feeling well again soon.” She failed to mention the fact that her leech was Audr, a heathen Danish woman, but…that was beside the point. Edward seemed unconcerned, already looking behind her into the dark recess of her hall. 

“My men are weary, Aethelflaed. I pray you have something warm and hearty ready for us.” 

Aethelflaed swallowed a sigh. “Of course, brother.” 

She turned towards the door, but at that moment, Aelfwynn trotted out of the hall, coming to rest beside Aethelflaed without a scrap of grace or decorum. She gasped in surprised pleasure. 

“ _Mother!_ You didn’t tell me there were _children_ coming!” 

Aethelflaed laughed, hoping the disruption would not sour Edward’s mood any further. “These are your cousins, Aethelstan and Eadgyth,” she explained. “They’re here to…visit.” 

Aelfwynn skipped forward and poked Aethelstan directly in his little chest. The boy stared blankly back at her. 

“Mama!” She cried, with a note of rising panic. “He’s _weird!_ ” 

“Alright!” Aethelflaed grabbed her daughter’s hand and dragged her away from the scene. “Let’s go inside, shall we?” 

Edward made a noise of dissatisfied assent. 

For a relatively small host, Edward’s party filled the hall like a swarm of wasps. The priests had quickly taken over one alcove, where they engaged with Oswey in stiff conversation. One of them seemed somehow already deep in cups, despite having barely settled in for a drink. Perhaps he’d arrived drunk from the road. 

Aelfwynn had rounded up the other children, and they had descended on Aethelstan and Eadgyth like a herd of curious goats, ferrying them away to some secret child’s place, whether by will or by coercion Erik could not say. Edward seemed unconcerned either way. He had spared no delay in taking over Aethelflaed’s high seat, and she was forced to sit on his left hand like a subordinate. 

Erik watched them from an alcove, nursing his dark mood with a cup of spiced ale. He was ill-disposed towards the whole lot of them, especially that mysterious man who sat across from him in the opposite alcove - sleek and dark as an otter and pretty as a painting. Who the hell was _he?_ He had seemed more than cordial with Aethelflaed earlier. He swallowed the feeling with a struggle. _No right_ … _no right_ …

Birger found him there, in his sour stew. He lowered himself onto the bench with a weary sigh.

“I thought you were leaving,” he said. 

“I was.” 

“But…?” 

Erik gestured towards Edward and Aethelflaed, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Occasionally a word or phrase would drift across the stones, and Erik labored to catch each one with wary eagerness. 

“Do you trust him?” He asked Birger. “The King?” 

“What? With Aethelflaed’s honor?” Birger snorted. “I pray I can.” 

“No,” Erik said, placing down his cup with a testy jerk of his arm. “That’s not what I mean. Well…perhaps, in a way. Do you trust him with _Mercia’s_ honor?” 

Birger raised an eyebrow. 

“He has his own plans here, I am certain,” Erik explained. “He has his own schemes.”

“Of course he does,” Birger replied, swallowing a sip. “He is King Alfred’s son.” 

“But…he is trying to control her…to command her!” 

Birger smiled grimly. “Luckily, Lady Aethelflaed has a will of her own. And men here to outnumber his, eight to one.” 

“Somehow, that does not put me at ease, Birger.” 

The other man shrugged, affecting a gesture of nonchalance. But he, too, watched Edward with solemn, steady eyes. 

“You will have heard that Guthred has died - in Northumbria?” 

“I have, of course.” Aethelflaed tried to keep the clipped tone out of her voice, but it was hard, when Edward sat in her seat, gazing out at her hall like it was a great, juicy morsel to be eaten. 

“And so you also know that a Dane name Sigfrothr has claimed it in his absence?”

Aetheflaed’s eyes flicked to Erik, where he sat drinking in the corner with Birger, his face darkened in shadow. She could not see his eyes, but she knew he was listening.

“I have heard rumors of Sigfrothr,” she said, keeping her cards close. “They call him Redbeard.” 

Edward scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. “Of course they do. You do not seem concerned, sister,” he said, looking at her pointedly. 

“I am not unconcerned,” she said. “I am merely waiting to see how the situation unfolds.” 

“He is a warlord, Aethelflaed.” 

She laughed. “Are not all men of land and title warlords?” 

“He is a Dane!” Edward said, the color rising in his cheeks. “A Pagan. He will return Northumbria to godlessness!” 

Aethelflaed let out a measured breath, looking at Edward with guileless eyes. “There have been Pagan lords all over the North for years - for decades even. We both know that Guthred was not a strong king. There was much godlessness in Northumbria under his rule. We do not know yet whether anything will change under Sigfrothr,” 

Edward’s eyes had narrowed as Aethelflaed spoke. “You would know something about godlessness, wouldn’t you? They say your court is practically half heathen.” He framed it as a jest, but she felt the sting behind it. 

“That is unfair, Edward,” she said. “I think the people of Wircester would disagree, as they say their prayers in the new abbey I’ve endowed there.” 

Edward sniffed and fell silent, dropping the thread of conversation at Aethelflaed’s retort. But after a moment, the corners of his eyes twitched and he spoke again.

“Tell me, sister - does the man who once held you hostage still serve you as your thegn?”

Aethelflaed’s body stiffened, and she willed her eyes to stay away from the shape of Erik, folded darkly in the corner. Edward had never met Erik, he would have no reason to know the man’s face. 

Edward refused to drop the thread. “What was his name? Erik Halfhand, they call him?” 

“He is not my thegn,” she said, lying for some reason she could not fathom herself. “But yes, sometimes he does business for me.”

“You must have bewitched him, sister. It is a strange story.” 

Aethelflaed swallowed the cold lump in her throat. “The truth is often strange. Not all Danes and Northmen want war. Erik has settled, he has made a life here, in service of peace. I think that is something to be rewarded, not mocked.” 

Edward put his hands up in feigned surrender. “I know the heathens have their uses, sister. But I keep them at bay, for fear of tarnishing the sanctity of my crown. It is why Uhtred does not live at my court, for all his usefulness.” 

“Oh, is that why? I had not realized.” She laughed, a light tinkling sound that was as innocent as it was biting. She heard Erik snort into his ale. Edward’s face turned slightly pink with embarrassment. 

“Leave us,” he spoke suddenly, turning to bark the order at the servants and men who bustled or drank in corners of the hall. “All of you. I would speak to my sister alone.”

Aethelflaed bristled. It was not his place to command her men like that. Erik’s body was particularly taut as he rose, glaring slightly at Edward. “With Lady Aethelflaed’s consent, of course,” Edward added hastily, noticing the tension.

“The council chamber is open, if it’s privacy you seek.” 

“No,” Edward said, with a tone of lazy acquiescence. “This will do.”

Aethelflaed sighed and nodded, releasing her men from the hall. A serving girl with a tray of empty mugs scurried by, tripping lightly over her feet. Erik’s eyes burned into Aethelflaed’s for a moment, sending a jolt through her stomach. She looked away, and heard his footsteps echo on his retreat. 

“I have something to ask of you,” Edward said when they were alone. 

“A favor? You have set yourself up so well.” Edward’s jaw clenched. “It was a jest, brother. What do you ask? Speak it.” 

Edward let out a breath. “My children…Aethelstan and Eadyth.” 

Aethelflaed eased a bit at the mention of the children. “They are lovely children, Edward. You should be proud.” In truth they were strange children, sickly and sad-looking. But that only softened Aethelflaed’s heart to them more.

“I am glad they please you. I am…” he faltered a bit, appearing nervous and awkward. The sight of it set Aethelflaed on edge slightly. “I would like them to stay here, if you consent.” 

“To stay here? In my godless court?” Aethelflaed joked. 

Edward’s nostrils flared. “This is serious, Aethelflaed.” 

“Alright…for how long?”

“For as long as is necessary.”

“You wish them…to _live_ here? To grow here? But surely their place is at Wintancester. They are the King’s children. Aethelstan is your heir!”

Edward looked away, his eyes darkening. “Aethelstan does not please Aelfflaed. Nor her father Aethelhelm.” 

Aethelflaed scoffed. “Then let them be displeased. He is your son, not a wayward thegn. I do not understand how a child of two can displease anyone so greatly.” 

“You do not understand, Aethelflaed. You think it is simple, but it is not.”

“Then help me understand!” 

“It is precisely because Aethelstan is my heir that he displeases Aelfflaed!” 

Aethelflaed’s mind reeled. “You fear for him? You fear…that he will come to harm, at the hands of your wife?” 

“I do not think Aelfflaed would harm him, no…but…” Edward’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “It would be better for him, I think, to grow without the fear of danger. It would be better for both of them.”

Aethelflaed felt a spur of anger rise in her chest. “This is mother’s fault. She has made a poor match for you, as she made a poor match for me.” 

Edward’s mouth was a thin line. “If it is her doing, then I fear she lives to regret it. Lord Aethelhelm…he does not respect her council. He banishes her from workings of the court.”

The anger flared again in her throat. “And you allow this? This overreach….this insolence?” 

“Aethelhelm commands over eight hundred men! I need his support.” 

“You are owed his support!” She spoke more fiercely than she intended. “You are his King! You do not need to step aside and hand him your throne.” 

Edward’s eyes flashed. “You seem to think it is easy - to fill father’s shoes, to lead our people and not see all of his hard work undone. If it is it all so simple to you, I invite you to come to Wintancester and…” He drifted off, his frustration still heavy in the air. 

“And what?” Aethelflaed offered. “Take your throne? I am busy enough with my own kingdom, brother.” Her voice was tense, her body clenched in response to the slight he meant but would not say - that she was ignorant, that she had no sense of the challenges of rule. 

They sat like that for a long moment, glowering at each other through the thick air. 

“Aethelstan…and Eadyth,” Edward said finally. There was no apology in his voice, only the fierce press of intention. Aethelflaed allowed herself to ease a bit. 

“Your children are welcome here, Edward. Of course,” she said, trying to sound kind. “I will make certain that they are safe, and raised _godly_.” Her mouth quirked up a bit at the word. Edward rubbed his face, allowing the tension to pass. 

“Thank you, Aethelflaed,” he said. “I will not forget this.” 

She nodded, taking in his white lips, his eyes darting cautiously around the room, even though he knew them to be alone. He was a dogged man, she realized. She felt some sympathy for him then. 

“It was mother’s idea, you know,” he said, his eyes still creased. “To send the children here. Perhaps she thinks more highly of you than you realize.” 

“Oh.” It was a gentle thing to say, but it hit Aethelflaed in a tender, painful place. She cared for her mother - she could not abandon the feeling of deep love and trust that she had once held for Aelswith. But there was also a great ocean of pain that stretched between that little girl and the woman that Aethelflaed had become. Perhaps one day, she could forgive her mother for Aethelred - for allowing her to wed him. But she had not found that forgiveness within herself yet. 

Edward stood suddenly, and Aethelflaed flustered in surprise. “We are overdue for prayer, I think,” he announced. “You will join me in the chapel forthwith? Father Whitelby shall be honored to lead us in devotion, I’m certain.” 

“Ah. Father Whitelby.” Perhaps he was the one she’d seen sponging spilled wine off his frock with one of her tapestries. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” 

If Edward sensed the dry tone of her words, he ignored it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always for all of your incredible, thoughtful comments. You have no idea how much it makes my day to see people enjoying and interacting with my story. Y’all are seriously the light in my life right now.
> 
> And if you don’t comment, thank you so much for reading!! I’m so glad you’re here, and I hope this story gives you as much satisfaction to read as it gives me to write!!


	9. But I'll Not Have Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> off-loading a few chapters so I can stop fussing over them and get on with the narrative. hope you enjoy!

Erik slept in the stables. It was crowded enough in the hall that even Birger did not protest when he snuck out with his bedroll, long before the feast had dwindled down to its dregs. 

It was better this way. He had barely been able to bear the feast, despite the rich array that Aethelflaed and Brione had pulled together - warm haunches of roast Venison, tender pork with the flavor of Applewood smoke in its flesh, crusty pies stuffed with pigeon meat and fresh leeks and sage. Erik had tried to enjoy it, but it had all just tasted like ash on his tongue.

His mind had instead been fixed on Aethelflaed, where she sat at the high table, between Edward and his thegns. She had smiled and laughed with her usual grace, but it had all seemed so _forced,_ a thin veneer pasted over a core of fear. He could hear nothing of the conversation - he was sat at a table far lower in the hall, but he had seen the sharp look in her eyes, the tense, slightly restless way she held her body. Even after all these years, Erik felt like he could read her as well as he had once read the waves and the tides. 

And the worst of it was - no one else seemed to notice. Edward and his thegns talked across her as though she were little more another wall tapestry. When Edward’s eyes did drift onto her, it was with a look of shrewd appraisal, as if she was a fine horse, and he wondered how much he get for her at the market. And then there was the other man, sat close at Aethelflaed’s right hand, with his cloying smile and his sleek dark curls. What was his name? Edgar? Edmund? Erik could never keep these Saxons straight. He looked at Aethelflaed in an altogether different way. It made Erik’s jaw clench as tight as a clamp. 

No, it was better in the stables, among the steady, heavy breaths and the shuffling steps of the horses as they slept in their stalls. In the half-state of sleep, Erik could almost believe it was the sound of the sea beneath him. 

He woke thinking of boats. He thought of _Windsong,_ and of _Wavetamer,_ ships long gone from his life. They sailed through his mind like ghosts, and he could almost hear the snapping of the ropes, the slap and suck of water against a hull, the shouts of men at the oar. 

And then he thought of Egbert. 

He nearly ran from the stables, through the yard, out the gate of the fortress where a guardsman hollered in shock as he barreled by. He became breathless half-way through the village and had to walk the rest of the way to the awning of the large workshop that rose, like a stilt-legged crane, from the banks of the Tame. 

He cried out in awe at the sight of them - two ships, nestled under the open thatch like great sleeping dragons. The boatbuilder’s white-blonde head popped out from around the curve of one prow. 

“Christ, man!” He cried, aghast. “I feared you were a raider come to kill me.” His surprise melted slightly into mirth. “You’re not, are you?” 

Erik gasped out a laugh. “Not today, Egbert.” 

The man walked over and clapped Erik on the back in the greeting. “It’s been a while,” he said. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.” 

“Well…I almost did…forget about you.”

Egbert put a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Erik. And here I thought we were friends.” 

“There’s been a lot on my mind! It’s been…nearly a year.”

“And I, loyal nave, have followed your plans to the point.” 

“I’m not sure I’d call rough scratchings in the dirt “plans,” exactly, but I’m glad they served you well. Are they finished?” Erik asked, pointing to the boats. 

“I think so,” Egbert said, a little breathless with pride. “I’ve not yet tested them on the water.” 

“They’ll hold,” Erik said. “If you’ve followed the…the _plans_ , they’ll hold.” 

Erik was lost in rapture at the sight of them. They were propped up on wide wooden cradles, which lifted their hulls from the ground so that their decks lay higher than his head. He walked around one in a reverent procession, dragging his hand along the hull, feeling where each strike was carefully lapped over the next. When he reached the stern, he pulled himself up onto the deck, and the boards squeaked beneath his feet with swollen newness. 

He gave a sharp, barking yell of a laugh, an unabashed sound of pure joy. “This is…amazing, Egbert! These are amazing! You’ve done excellent work here, excellent!” 

“Thank you,” Egbert said, a little taken aback. 

Erik had once put his own hands to wood and metal. He had cut the trees and sawed the boards that made _Wavetamer_. He had forged the nails that studded its sides. He would have done the same here, if he could’ve, if he could’ve stayed in Tamworthig long enough to see it done. But that was not an option. So he’d had to pass his vision along to Egbert, and hope the man could see it done, and now he could only revel vicariously in the man’s success. 

“Does Lady Aethelflaed know? That the ships are done?” Aethelflaed was the patron of this project, of course - an effort to expand Mercian influence on the water. Erik wondered if she’d forgotten about them too. Egbert had worked so slowly…

“Not yet.” The man looked nervous. “They’re not yet tested, on the water! I didn’t want to be hasty!” 

“But you’ll need men to test them, no? We should go out tomorrow, row towards the Trent, see how they handle in the shallow eddies —”

“Good God, man! Tomorrow? With the King here?!” 

Erik felt his good spirits wane. He had forgotten about the King. “No…no, I suppose that would not be wise.”

He felt as if he were being sucked slowly down, as if he himself were caught in a shallow eddy. For some reason unknown even to himself, he could not — he would not — leave until the King was gone. And if he wished to see the ships launched, he would have to stay even longer. He did not want to think about that, about what it would mean. Not now, not here with the deck of a fine ship beneath his feet. A fine Viking ship. 

Aethelflaed almost thought the visit would pass with little more than some fleeting awkwardness and a strain on her storehouse. She could bear Edward’s pompous presumptions - the spread-eagled occupation of her hall by him and his men - for a few days. She could dote on his children, and pretend to be easy and pliable to his suggestions, and wait for himto leave, self-assured that he had the situation well in hand. 

But then the messenger came. 

He came gray-faced and gray-cloaked on a half-dead horse, and staggered into her hall with the desperate terror of a hunted man. Just the sight of him was like the sound of bad news. 

Edward stood as the man walked towards them, and Aethelflaed could almost see him gather his words into a command. She seized control of the situation. 

“Into the council chamber,” she commanded. She would not have ill tidings announced in her hall for all to hear. She swept off into the back room, leaving Edward and the messenger to follow her wake. Birger followed as well, and Aethelflaed’s eyes raked over the room in search of Erik, but he was no where to be seen. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed at this fact.

“What’s happened?” She demanded, when they’d gathered behind the carved wooden panels of the chamber. “What news do you bring?” 

“Lady, I —” the man gulped, looking back and forth nervously between herself and Edward. He decided to fix his message on her. “I ride from the village of Bectune, Lady.” Aethelflaed’s mind soared over the map that lived in her head - Bectune, just South of Sheaffield, just at the edge of the border with Northumbria, on the far edge of the Boroughs. Her blood cooled by several degrees. 

“Lady,” the man continued. “Raiders have come. They burned my village - they burned Sheaffield, too! I could see the flames from my home, like the devil himself had come out of the Earth. I saw it burn, and then they came for us, Lady —!” 

He was overtaken by his distress. Aethelflaed shared a dark look with Birger, trying to control the dread that was clawing up her throat, trying to control the dismay and the fear in her voice and her face. 

“Did you see the raiders? Do you know who they were?” She asked steadily. The man’s eyes widened in confusion or concentration, and Edward’s voice cut in. 

“It was Sigfrothr. It must be Sigfrothr!”

“We don’t know that, Edward!” Aethelflaed said, with unmasked frustration. 

“Who else could it be?” Edward retorted. 

“There are always raiders on the Northern border!” 

“Devils…” the man was saying, more to himself than anyone in particular. “They were like devils…devils straight from Hell itself.” He looked up at Aethelflaed as if struck with a sudden thought. “There are Danes in Sheaffield…there are Danes there! Why would…why would burn the village like that? I could hear the screams…!” 

Aethelflaed sighed, lowering herself into a chair. “It makes no sense.” The man was still blinking at her desperately, and she nodded to Birger on his behalf. “See the man fed, and rested.” Birger turned to shepherd him away, but the messenger cried out again. 

“Lady! My people — they need help, they need aid! They will be lost to the slavers, Lady, please!” 

Aethelflaed swallowed and tried to sound assuring. “We shall send men to see what can be done. Have faith! You’ve done well for your kin. You’ve done God’s work.” 

The man moaned, whether from grief or relief she could not say, and shuffled from the room.

Edward’s face was white, his hand clamped on the ridge of a stiff-backed chair. They were alone now. “You will send men?” He said, tightly. “What, a scouting party? You must meet this threat with equal force, or you will be —”

“Hush now,” she snapped. “I’m thinking.” 

And perhaps he was truly startled, for he did. 

The villages of Sheaffield had long dwealt in a no-man’s land between Mercia and Northumbria. Technically Mercian by right, they were nevertheless filled with as many Danes as Saxons, and there were no great burhs close enough to offer true protection. They were often the victim of raids from across the border, dealt by the opportunistic Vikings of Jorvik. But still…

“It makes no sense,” she repeated, more to herself than to Edward. “Why would Sigfrothr attack so close to home, when he could use the Northern boroughs as allies? There are Danes South of Sheaffield who would happily pledge their swords against me, I’m certain.”

“He is a heathen! He is motivated by greed, not by strategy.” 

Aethelflaed suppressed an eyeroll at this. If Edward thought the Danes incapable of strategy, well…perhaps that’s why he was floundering so badly in East Anglia. “But he is acting like an invader,” she explained. “Not like a King.”

“He _is_ an invader! He’s invading Mercia!” 

“He’s practically pillaging his own people! To what end? Those villages are poor, piss-poor Edward! They’ve been raked over more times than I can count. There can’t be a silver cup or a damned gold-crusted cross left for miles…” she cut herself off, before her anger could fuel more blasphemy. “No. There is something more at work here. It is a trick, or a trap, or…perhaps there’s more than one side at play. We need more information. We will send the scouting party, and…and we will prepare.” 

She felt a sense of calm come over her as she came to the decision. It was a sound judgement, she thought. Erik would approve, she knew, and that thought gave her a small glow of satisfaction. 

But Edward’s face was very cold as he looked down at her. 

“Aethelflaed,” he said. “There is something else I must speak to you about.” 

“Edward,” she replied, and her voice was like a knife’s edge. “I cannot bear any more ill-tidings, I cannot —”

He cut over her. “I intended to wait, for a more easeful moment, but I fear I cannot wait any longer.” 

She said nothing, just sat like a stone, waiting for the punch.

“Aethelflaed…it is time for you to take a new husband.” 

Her head snapped up at his words. She had not been expecting _that_. 

“What—? _What?!_ What, _now_?” She thought for a second it might have been a joke, but Edward’s face was as gray as slate. “Edward, am I not already engaged with enough pressing matters—-?” 

“Yes, and that is why we must talk about it now! You cannot do this alone, you need allies, you need support!”

The heat rose in Aethelflaed’s cheeks and she stood, squaring off against her brother. “I —- I _have_ allies, Edward. I —- what exactly is lacking, in your mind, about my rule in Mercia?”

He dodged the question. “I never understood why father let you…why he did not press the matter. Your hand is a great asset, sister. We could use it to gain more _powerful_ allies. _Needed_ allies.” 

Aethelflaed felt suddenly like she was hanging on a cliff, clinging to its edge with all her strength, while her brother stood above her, stepping on her hands. “What allies do you have in mind, exactly?” She asked, with a note of desperate hysteria she was ashamed to hear. “You wish to offer me to Sigfrothr, is that it?” 

“No! Of course not! _Never_ …with a _heathen._ ” Aethelflaed’s stomach turned at the note of disgust in his voice. Edward looked into Aethelflaed’s cold face for a moment, and then, undeterred by her dark glare, he took a breath and soldiered on with his proposal.

“A man of Wessex, I imagine. A powerful man who commands many warriors, who would serve us more closely in our campaigns against the Danes.” 

Her lips grew a little numb. “You would have me hand over my throne, to Wessex?” 

“Not…necessarily. Things could be arranged. You could keep the title.” 

She almost laughed. “What you are saying is impossible, brother.” 

“It is unconventional, but…”

“It is the law.” 

“Laws can change! With…the approval of the Witans of Mercia and of Wessex. With their approval of the match…it could be done.” 

Aethelflaed could not stomach his words, she could not allow him to speak such promises, to pledge to her what she had most desperately wanted, but only on his own selfish terms. It was like a cold hand gripped her heart and would not let go.

“I have no need of a husband.” 

A coil of anger twitched in Edward’s face. “And what of Mercia? What of the succession? With a husband of Wessex, you could bind the kingdoms even more strongly, your heir would belong more to Wessex than Mercia—”

“I have a child.” 

“A daughter!” 

“And what’s to stop her from holding the title in her own name, as I hold it in mine?” 

Edward snorted. “You are speaking of dreams now…impossible fantasies!” 

“ _You_ speak to me of impossible fantasies!” 

“I speak to you of reality, sister! You cannot remain unmarried forever, as much as you may wish it!” 

Aethelflaed reeled. Her hand was a vice on the back of her chair. She had to stop herself from throwing it across the room towards him. “Do you think this is what I want? Do you think I wish to sleep alone for the rest of my days? Do you have any _idea_ what I have had to give up….for this? I do not want this. I only know that the cost of anything else is too great.” 

“Stop being so selfish, Aethelflaed.” His mouth twisted, almost mockingly. “You would have men die, for your…. _fantasy_ of playing at Queen?” His words hit her like a slap - the cruelty of them, the deep, bitter unfairness of it all. She could say nothing, and after a moment, his face eased a bit, as if he knew he had crossed a line. 

“There are many men who would be willing, Aethelflaed,” he said, as if this was a great and generous thing to say. “Edmund has put himself forward, for consideration. He does not hold much land, but he could still be a worthy match.” 

_Oh_. So that’s what it was all about. Edmund’s strange mood, his eager eyes. _I believe his news may please you,_ he’d said. Aethelflaed swallowed the sick feeling in her throat. “Edmund desires me.” 

“Many men desire you.” 

“So I should give myself to them, like a whore?” 

“Of course not! I am saying…you have choices, sister! You are free to choose who you wish!” 

“No, brother.” She did not - she _could_ not keep the cold resentment from her voice. “I am free to choose who _you_ wish. You forget that I’ve been playing this game for longer than you have. You would promise me the world - I could keep my title, I could marry, have more children. But we both know it would not happen like that. I would become little more than a ward of Wessex. My children would be slaves to your will.” 

“Aetheflaed - _you_ are of Wessex. What conflict can you have with my will? With our father’s will?” 

“I am of Mercia now. I lead in Mercia’s name.” 

“Then perhaps you _should_ lead! Rather than hiding in your fortress and playing cat and mouse with Danes who would be better sent to hell!” 

“How dare you? _How dare you?!_ I have secured the borders of Mercia, I have held them and grown them - or do you forget that the hall we sit in now was a Heathen fortress not five years past? While you have blundered in East Anglia, I have gone about enacting father’s dream!” 

“And yet now, Pagan warlords raid at your Northern border unchallenged —”

“I am gathering information! I am acting from knowledge, not…striking blindly, as our father taught me—”

“Perhaps you conspire with Sigfrothr against me!” 

She recoiled. “You cannot mean —”

Something ugly twisted in Edward’s face. “They say you warm the beds of Heathen warriors, sister. Is that how you tempt so many Danish thegns to your service?” 

Aethelflaed straightened her back, squaring her head and fixing him with the coldest look she could muster. “You will not speak to me in that foul manner. This is my hall. You are my guest and you will not disrespect me again.” 

Edward gave a snort. “And why should I stay in your hall? It is clear you have no need for my council, or for the council of Wessex.”

“You and your men may leave today if you wish. My kitchen will see you outfitted for the journey.” 

Edward reeled a bit, his face settling into a look of disgusted affront. Perhaps he had not expected her to actually kick him out. 

“Fine.” The word was almost a whisper. “Fine.” He strode towards the door but then stopped, at the edge of the room. He turned, and when he spoke again, he did not shout. It was so much worse than a shout. His voice was like a snake in the grass. "Know this, sister - if your pride can allow you to hear it. You may call yourself _Lady of Mercia,_ but if you do not do something about Sigfrothr….I will find another solution for your kingdom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve perhaps been a *bit* hard on Edward here. But heck it, every story needs some villains, and good ol’ Eddie will do just fine for this one. Also, if we’re being honest, he *is* a bit of a turd. 
> 
> Also yea, one day I just woke up and was like “Erik misses boats.” And so a whole branch of this story was born…


	10. Slack Your Rope a While

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Just a reminder that there’s another character named Aelfwynn in this story - a grown woman who helped Aethelflaed in her war against Aethelred. Also Edgar =/= Edmund (I’m sorry these Saxons love their Eds!) Aelfwynn is sister to Edmund, wife to Edgar. 
> 
> Just a reminder in case you’re confused when there are two Aelfwynns running around.

Erik was pleased and surprised when the King left. It was days earlier that he had dared to hope, and to complete Erik’s joy, that slick man Edmund had left with them. Perhaps Egbert and he could test the boats out in the next day or two, and Erik could be gone from this place by the end of the week, off to his scouting in the North. He almost looked forward to it, despite the hard travel and unknown danger it would bring. 

He was sitting in an alcove of the hall, carving a little wooden ship for Aelfwynn, when Aethelflaed found him. Aelfwynn was sitting nearby, watching him and peppering him with unending questions, and Aethelflaed touched the girl’s head lovingly as she entered the small space. The sight of it set Erik’s heart aching like a coal in his chest. He had to look away for a moment, up into the hall’s great sun beam. He blinked. 

“Aelfwynn, my love…” Aethelflaed was saying. “I need a moment with…” she looked at Erik nervously. “With…your friend.” 

Erik could not forget how she had said his name in the council chamber three nights past, as if they were lovers, as if the past five years had never happened at all. He did not think he could bear such a thing again.

Aelfwynn was opening her mouth to protest but Aethelflaed cut her off with a stern look. “Go check on your cousin Eadgyth. She feels unwell, and Audr is tending her. I’m sure you can cheer her up.”

The King’s children had stayed, Erik noticed. Perhaps that’s why he had come, to leave them here like so much extra baggage. 

Aelfwynn seemed pleased with her mother’s proposal, probably imagining herself as a deeply important lady sent on a task for her younger kinswoman. She skipped lightly over to Erik and plucked the ship from his hands. 

“You can finish it later,” she said, and then scurried off. 

Aethelflaed laughed at her retreat. “She is getting spoiled.” 

“It’s my fault, I imagine,” Erik said, sheathing his knife slowly so he wouldn’t have to look at her quite yet. 

“No, it’s — it’s alright, I think,” she said, a little distantly. She lowered herself down onto the far stool, wincing slightly as she did. Erik noticed for the first time that she oddly flushed. There were two high spots of red on her cheekbones and her brow was damp with sweat. A strand of hair had uncurled from her braid and was stuck to her temple. 

“Are you — are you unwell, Lady?” He felt suddenly nervous. He had thought she would be more at ease since Edward’s departure, but if anything she seemed more tense, more on edge. There was a slightly panicked look behind her eyes. 

“Just a headache.” She smiled in a tight, drawn way. “It’ll pass.” 

They sat in silence for a long moment. Aethelflaed seemed reluctant to speak. 

“Did you … have something to ask me, Lady?” Erik asked, finally. 

She nodded. “It’s about the North. It’s about Sigfrothr.” 

“Birger told me there was a raid…” 

“I must take the war band North, Thurgilson. As soon as possible.” 

Erik was speechless for a moment. “Lady, _now_? The war band? We have…no information! We don’t even know that it was Sigfrothr who executed the raid!” 

“I must take the war band North.” It was she who could not look at him now. She spoke to the table. “And … I need you to come with us.” 

“Lady.” Erik felt a crushing weight settle down on his chest. 

“You are my greatest asset in the North, and I…I cannot hope to succeed without your council.” Her voice was very formal, almost rigid, but she still looked down at the table, blinking rapidly as if in distress. 

Erik rubbed his face, trying not to sigh. “Lady, it is an ill plan.” 

“I know.” She looked at him fiercely then, for one fleeting moment, before dropping her gaze back down to her hands. “I know. But I have little choice in the matter. I am caught between…two forces that I cannot control, and I must choose one ill plan or the other, and I hope I have chosen right on Mercia’s behalf.” 

_Edward_. This was Edward’s doing, Erik knew it. He almost said it, almost chided her for letting her brother control her, for letting him scare her like this. But then she looked up at him, and there was such an unspoken plea in her face. She was suddenly so vulnerable - not a Queen, but just a woman, desperate and in need of help. A woman he loved. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes shuttering. “I know what it is I ask —”

But Erik had already made his decision. 

“We can take the boats,” he spoke, brusquely. It was just business. War business. They needed to be steady and unflustered now. 

“The boats?!” 

“They’re done. They’ve not been tested yet, but they’ll hold, I’m sure of it. Egbert’s a good craftsman, even if he is slow as a snail.” 

“You’ve seen them?” Her face was opening now, with something like relief. 

Erik nodded, smiled even. He could share in her excitement for the boats. He felt it in his breast as well. “They’re good crafts. They’ll each take 50 men at the benches, more on the deck if needed.” 

“We can take the Trent, through the Boroughs. It may be safer than riding.” She was a little breathless, thinking quickly now. 

“It’s hard to say…in the Boroughs. Jarl Olaf has ships at Hreopandune. He still does river raids - often - and your men are not particularly skilled on the water, Lady. It is a risk.” 

Aethelflaed nodded, her eyes distant in thought. “But to meet Sigfrothr with ships of our own — that is worth the risk, I think. You shall be shipmaster of one.” 

She said it casually, almost as an aside, but the breath left Erik’s chest at her words. He reeled, slightly dizzy with pleasure. To be a _shipmaster_ , to be a shipmaster — again! It might all be worth it, if only for that. 

“And the other?” 

Aethelflaed was chewing something over in mind. She seemed to find it, and smiled. “I suppose we’ll have to call on some old friends.” 

There was too much to do. The ships had to be tested, the war band prepared, messengers sent to the strongholds of Mercia and allies beyond. The household had to be readied for Aethelflaed’s long absence, and the children — _God_ , the children. 

“Will my father be coming?” Stiorra’s questions were never-ending. She stood in front of Aethelflaed’s desk as Aethelflaed copied a message for Aldhelm. Aethelflaed had never warmed enough to her husband’s old captain to keep him in her own household, but she would need him to bring as many warriors as he could afford from his post in Wircester, near the Welsh border. 

Stiorra stared at Aethelflaed with expectant urgency, and Aethelflaed massaged the bridge of her nose. 

“I hope so, Stiorra. I have sent word to him.”

“Will he be coming here?” 

Aethelflaed sighed. “We shall leave too soon for that, I think. He’ll have to meet us on the way.” 

“But he’ll come back here, afterwards? And visit us?” 

“I don’t know, Stiorra. I cannot say what he will do. You know your father…” she drifted off, turning back to her parchment, but Stiorra’s voice was sharp and high-pitched and cut through her skull like a cleaver.

“Tell him he must come visit us! He must!” 

“Stiorra!” Aethelflaed snapped. “It is not my place to command Lord Uhtred, and it is not your place to command me! Now give me a moment of peace from your insolence, _please_.”

Stiorra glared at her tearfully for a moment before turning and huffing from the room. Aethelflaed felt a little guilty for her outburst, but honestly…the girl was incessant. _And her head_ — _God, her head_. The ache was behind her eyes mostly, but there was also a tight, pinching pain at the base of her neck that bloomed up whenever the other one waned. 

Aethelflaed knew that Audr could see the sickness settling in, clawing its way back into her flesh like the foul spirit it was. She knew Audr worried.

“And what if you become ill on the road?” The younger woman had asked, when Aethelflaed told her the news.

“That is why you shall be with me. I cannot go anywhere without my trusty leech.” 

Audr rolled her eyes. “I’m not a leech, Lady…I’m just an herb-wife.” 

“Well, you’re a good enough leech for me. I’d be dead without you.” And it was true. Audr had tended her though the sickness that followed Aelfwynn’s birth, and through the bouts of illness that had plagued her time and time again ever since. Once a year at least, Aethelflaed would be indisposed for days, and Audr would have to force potions down her throat until she recovered. By the will of God, she had never fallen ill on a war campaign. She could only trust that God’s favor would hold.

“And what of the children?” Audr pressed. “Who will tend them? Eadgyth is unwell!” 

Aethelflaed sighed. There was a reason women were not warriors, and she thought it had little to do with skill with a sword. “I am calling Lady Aelfwynn and Lord Edgar from Aebingdune to keep the fortress in my stead. The Lady Aelfwynn - the _grown_ Lady Aelfwynn - she will see the children well cared for.” 

“And they will have their studies with Oswey to keep them busy,” Audr said, almost hopefully. 

Aethelflaed fixed her with an amused look. “No. Oswey must come with us.”

Audr’s face clouded with mild panic. “But — Lady — think of the children! Their…their letters will suffer, without him!” 

“There are other clerics here to teach them, you know.” 

“Lady…”

“I must have a priest, Audr! And he’s the only priest I can stand to be around for more than a moment.” 

Audr gave a burst of surprised laughter at that. “A true miracle, that…but still, _Oswey._ ” And she shook her head in desolation. 

“ROW!” Erik cried. “ROW! You call THAT rowing?! You pack of lily-assed worms! A gang of half-starved slaves could row better than you!” 

The shipwright Egbert looked up at him with a startled expression. “I didn’t realize we were in for a full flyting, Erik,” he said, and turn his gaze back to sight down the oars as if to check the precision of his work. 

Erik laughed, a bit savagely even to his own ears. It had been so long since he had commanded a crew, and most of these men had never seen this side of him. But he was reckless with the joy of it, and did not care to hold himself back from harshness. 

These Mercians _were_ pathetic on the water. _Practically useless_ , he thought, as he had to jerk the steering oar quickly to make up for the slowness of the starboard rowers, which was making the ship veer suddenly towards the right bank. 

“FOOLS!” He yelled again, the boat rocking and tipping chaotically at the correction. “Get yourselves together, men! Get yourselves in rhythm! What if there were Danes following from the far shore?! We’d be overtaken by now!” 

“You’d know somethin’ about Danes, wouldn’t ye?” A sour-looking man said to him from the port-side bench. “And ‘ow many Mercian ships have ye overtaken in yer day?” 

“I do know something about Danes,” Erik growled, and the man had the good sense to look a little frightened. “Which is why I can tell you that YOU LOT would not stand ONE CHANCE against a ship of Jarl Olaf’s men! This is too fine a vessel to end up smeared with all the shit and blood from your poxy asses! So ROW!!! ROW!! ROW!!” 

And they rowed. 

Erik thought they might get the hang out it, if they had another month or three to practice. But they did not. They would leave before the week was out, and Erik thought Lord Uhtred’s men could not come quick enough. 

The feast hall was full on the night before they left, but Aethelflaed could not help but feel somber. It was more crowded even than it had been when Edward’s host was visiting. Many thegns and warriors from the countryside had answered Aethelflaed’s call, and a good part of Aelfwynn and Edgar’s household had come along, swelling the horde that ate and drank at the hall’s long tables. 

Aethelflaed had sent to Oxenford for more rations to see the men fed on the journey North. But tonight - tonight they would probably eat the larder down to its dregs. Aethelflaed could not help but chew over every worry that had dogged her for the last days. 

“Lady Aethelflaed.” Lady Aelfwynn spoke from Aethelflaed’s right hand. She and her husband Edgar had arrived from Aebingdune the night before, to Aethelflaed’s intense relief. “You look tense, Lady.” 

Aethelflaed tried to smile. “I’m worried about Brione. I’m leaving the poor woman with little more than old bones and vinegar to feed the house in my absence.” 

“I will see it all well-managed when you are gone. I promise.” 

“I know,” Aethelflaed said, smiling genuinely and placing her hand over her friend’s. “I know you will. I still feel grieved. It is not your job to manage my household when you have your own to take care of.” 

“My hall is not so grand a place as this,” Aelfwynn assured. “And…we are not yet blessed with children of our own.” She looked very sad for a moment, and Aethelflaed opened her mouth to respond. But Aelfwynn’s face cleared quickly and she spoke again as if wishing to move on. “We are well suited to serve you here.” 

She was so good, Aelfwynn. So kind and true, with her slender, pretty face and her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight from beneath her veil. Aethelflaed was pleased she had chosen to give this woman’s name to her daughter. 

“If war continues, I fear I shall soon have to take a wife,” Aethelflaed said, slyly. Aelfwynn’s eyes widened and then she laughed at the jest. 

“Indeed, Lady,” Aelfwynn said, and Aethelflaed was grateful she could say even the strangest things to her friend. 

“It is strange,” Aelfwynn offered in return, “how easily men believe that the world would just…stop without them. But sometimes, I think—” Aelfwynn pitched her voice into a low conspiratorial whisper. “I think if the Lord took all the men tomorrow, well…the fields would still be seeded. The cattle would still be milked. The children would still be fed and clothed.”

Aethelflaed laughed with her. “It is true.” 

“I do not say such things to Edgar,” Aelfwynn admitted, looking across the table to where her husband was engaged in riotous conversation with one of his thegns. “And even if what I say is true, I admit…I would miss him.” 

“You are blessed in your marriage.” Aethelflaed could not ignore the fond, distant look in her friend’s eye, as if she was recounting some pleasing memory. 

Aethelflaed had always held a seed of buried jealously for that - not for Edgar himself - but for what Aelfwynn and he had together. They had been given to each other in marriage, and it had been a match of love, and it was all as simple as that for them, in its perfect, chaotic luck. Aethelflaed used to imagine what things might have been like, if it had been the same for her. But she was growing too old and too tired to dwell on those thoughts any longer. 

Aelfwynn turned to her, and her eyes were very tender “And you, Lady? Is there any man you would miss, if the Lord took them all tomorrow?” She laughed as she said, at the ridiculousness of her imagined premise. But there was a knowing look in her eye - whether it was for Erik or for Edmund, Aethelflaed could not say. Aelfwynn knew all of her secrets. 

“The King wishes me to marry. Your brother, perhaps, or another man of Wessex.” 

“I cannot deny that I would be honored and joyed to call you sister.” But Aelfwynn’s eyes did drift down the table towards Erik then, where he sat speaking with Birger. Aethelflaed took a sip from her cup to distract herself from the sight of his face. “But that is not what you want,” Aelfwynn said. 

“No.” Aethelflaed spoke into her ale. “That is not what I want.” 

“Lady —” Aelfwynn’s eyes were wide and urgent and sad, sad for _her_ , Aethelflaed realized, and she felt her throat tighten. “Is it wise? For…for Erik to come with you?” 

She whispered, but in truth no one was listening to them. Everyone was engaged. Audr spoke to little Aelfwynn, likely seeding some heathen thoughts in the child’s mind, and Oswey watched them with a dark, unfathomable look. Edgar had become engaged in Erik and Birger’s conversation, while his thegns took turns trying to flip coins into each other’s ale cups. The other children watched the game, giggling with glee. No one even spared a glance for Aethelflaed and Aelfwynn. 

“It is necessary,” Aethelflaed said. “He is the most skilled on the water, he is the most knowledgeable about the Danes of Jorvik —”

“Lady, I do not mean for your men. I mean for your heart.” 

Aethelflaed turned to Aelfwynn, knowing her face was filled with an unspoken plea. “Does it make a difference? The result is the same. My heart will have to endure.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I tend to write Erik as like the softest boi ever, but then I re-watch Season 2 and remember that he could actually be quite harsh when he wanted to / when he lost control of himself a bit. (On a related note, anyone else just watch random Season 2 episodes on shuffle so you can hang out with Sigefrid and Erik again for a bit? Just me?) 
> 
> So anyway. Trying to come up with more occasions for in-character yelling.


	11. For the Sake of a Ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: “Get a damn therapist, Erik.”
> 
> CW: animal sacrifice

Erik was in surprisingly good spirits throughout the feast. It was because of the ship, he knew. It was clouding his reason, drowning out the small voice in his mind that told him constantly, insistently: _This is a bad idea. This will end poorly. You cannot do this. You cannot endure this_. 

He should have been angry - at Edward, at Aethelflaed, at the whole damn plan, and at fate too, which had dragged him inexorably into it all. But then he would think of the ship, and he would find he could not care. It was as if an old forgotten part of him had sprung back to life after a long drought. 

_See?_ it would say. _There was a time when you were a full man, and not just a half-shade of yourself_. _There was a time when you thought the world could be yours, when you thought you could claim anything you wished…before you lost your mind, before the woman…_

No. That was something else. That was the voice of a ghost. 

Erik pushed it all away with ale, and with jesting and boasting among the men. Edgar made sure their mugs were always full, and Erik measured his drink less carefully than usual. If a man could not get drunk on the eve of war, when could he? Erik thought to himself. 

Or no, actually, it was Edgar saying that. 

“If a man cannot get drunk on the eve of war, then…when…can he?” Edgar towered over the table with his cup raised ceremonially in the air. Flecks of foam were visible in his red-brown beard.

The thegns cheered at his words, crashing their mugs down on the table so that streams of frothy ale sloshed onto the wood. Birger was laughing a great, deep-bellied laugh at a joke that Erik did not hear. 

“A toast!” Edgar cried. “A toast to the men of Mercia! And…whoever you lot are!” Erik could not help but laugh, buoyed up in hilarity by the other men. 

He had often kept his distance from Edgar, aware that the man knew more of the truth than he would have liked: that he and Aethelflaed had once been lovers, that Aelfwynn might have been his own child, and not Aethelred’s. But it was easy to forget that now. 

“To the men of Mercia!” Edgar said again. “You must win…glory…and reputation! On my account! For I am the least loved among Mercian lords, and must stay here guarding the treasure while you win fame!” 

“Nooooo,” the men crooned. “No!”

“Impossible!” one cried. “‘Cause there ain’t enough glory and reputation in all of Northumbria to make up for him, is there, lads?” 

There was a flash of tension as Edgar’s eyes narrowed and the men grew quiet. And then he bent over with a wild, riotous laugh, pounding the table in hilarity, and the men erupted once more. 

“You’re in good spirits tonight,” Birger said, as Erik chuckled over his ale. “I haven’t seen you this…like this….in….a long time?” He laughed, and screwed up his eyebrows at his own drunkenness. 

“I — yes!” Erik did not want to think about his good mood, for then he would just think about all the reasons he shouldn’t be in a good mood. It was better to just enjoy it. 

“Isn’t Erik in good spirits, Edgar, wouldn’t you…say?” Birger asked, turning to Edgar. The lord’s thegns had started a game flicking coins into each other’s half filled cups. One man had already gotten the dregs of a drink thrown in his face in retaliation. 

“Yes!” Edgar replied, burping slightly. “Yes, I would say…Erik’s in very good sprits, I’d say. Or should I say… _Lord_ Erik?” 

Erik’s brain was thick and slow. He didn’t take Edgar’s meaning, and his stomach folded in on itself a bit at the phrase. 

“Don’t you…don’t you think the Lady will finally give you land title…as her…as her…what’s the word? Shipmaster! Of course, shipmaster.” 

“I don’t know,” Erik said, feeling altogether less jovial than he had a moment before. 

“Or perhaps,” Edgar hiccuped. “Perhaps Lady Aefelthaed has…promised him something else entirely, eh?” Edgar elbowed Birger as he said it and gave the man a winking, conspiratorial look. 

But Birger’s face was twisted with confused reluctance, and Erik's stomach was growing sick and hollow. 

Perhaps Edgar noticed the tension, or perhaps he was truly that drunk, for he laughed over the moment. “I — what were we talking about? Did you…did you say something, Birger?”

“No, I don’t think so…” Birger said, scratching his head and giving Edgar an awkward smile. 

“I…hey—!” Edgar’s attention was caught by one of his thegns. “Dunstan! You are too drunk for that, Dunstan!” The man had taken out a knife and was aiming it, one eye closed, towards the space between another’s man outstretched hands. 

He stumbled over to stop them, nearly overturning a tankard in his urgency, and Birger and Erik snorted at the ridiculousness of it. It was almost enough to brush over the feeling of the awkward moment before. 

Erik felt a tug at the sleeve of his tunic, and looked down to see Aelfwynn blinking up at him, a little bleary-eyed with fatigue. 

“Alba says I must go to bed now,” she said, shooting a look at her nursemaid, who hovered in the corner. 

“Well I reckon you probably should then, shouldn’t you?” He meant to be gentle and teasing, but the drink made his voice harsh and slurred, and Aelfwynn face drew in with a look of startled nervousness. 

Erik’s chest hurt a bit at the sight. He looked around at the scene - the bawdiness of the men, loud and leering with their drunken laughter - and felt some shame at the spectacle. What must she think, witnessing men behave like this?

“What is it, aelska?” He asked, as gently as he could. 

Aelfwynn sniffed and soldiered on. “Mother says you will all leave tomorrow, and it is for battle, I know it is for battle!” 

“Perhaps.” 

“And…and…” her words starting coming out more frantically. “And you might have your neck cut open, or a sword put through you, or an axe stuck in your head, or —!” 

“Who is putting these awful thoughts in your head, child?” He could not help the gruffness then. 

“No one,” she said meekly, but her eyes glanced up briefly towards Stiorra, where the older girl was watching the men’s crude games with unrestrained glee. 

Erik took one of Aelfwynn’s tiny hands within his own. “Listen,” he said. “It is true that we may find ourselves at war. But there may not even be a battle. And if there is…well, I have endured every battle so far. And your mother, too. I have no plans to die now.” 

“But you don’t know!” Erik could see the tears clinging to the edges of her eyelashes. “Only God knows, and you are a heathen!” 

_Poor child_. What a hard, unfathomable world she lived in. Erik’s heart ached for her, and the small, innocent child he himself had once been, struck with terror in the night at the thought of his own family dying. Now they were all dead but him. They were all gone, and he could make no promise to her that she would not know the same grief in her life. He could not control fate. 

“You are right, aelska. I do not know. I can only hope and…pray. You will…you will pray to God for me? That He should protect me, and your mother, and all of our men — if that is His will?” 

He hoped the words made sense to her, and it seemed they did. She nodded, scattering a few loose tears down her cheeks. Then she made a desperate little motion, clutching his arm and burying her face into the fabric of his tunic for a long moment. And then she scurried away towards Alba without glancing back. 

Erik sighed, trying to clear the loose rattling feeling that her worry had left in his throat. Birger was slumped now, head down on the table, snoring lightly so that his breath rippled a small puddle of ale on the wood. _Like wind on water_. 

Erik shook his head raggedly, and pushed his ale mug away from him. He should not drink like this; he would useless in the morning, when he would most need to be sharp. Aethelflaed needed him to be sharp, and prepared…

He noticed she had gone from the table, leaving her friend Lady Aelfwynn to watch the men with bemused surrender. Erik stood up and took several deep breaths, trying to clear the dizziness from his head. He hoped he did not look as drunk as he felt when he found her in the council chamber. 

“You have escaped Lord Edgar, I presume.” She spoke with easy candor as he walked into the room, but she did not look up from the parchment spread before her. 

“Yes, Lady.” His voice still sounded slurred to his ears. He tried to stand tall and stiff and formal, with his hands clasped behind his back. Best to speak his piece and leave as quickly as possible. “The ships are prepared, Lady.” 

She made a small noise of assent, still focused on her work.“Oswey will say a blessing on them, before we part in the morning.” 

“I — that’s good, Lady.” He coughed and took in a breath. “I think, Lady, with your will…I think it would be best if we traveled on separate ships.” 

She looked up at him then, her eyes thick with some veiled expression. 

He continued. “I will command one, Birger the other. Uhtred can take lead of your ship, once we reach the Trent. I trust Birger will keep you safe under his command, until then.”

She nodded, looking away from him. “The Tame offers little risk. I will endure with a…less skilled shipman, I’m sure.” 

“Yes, Lady.” 

She nodded again, more decisively this time. “And you shall choose whichever other men you wish, for your crew.” 

“Um….why, Lady? You and Birger should have your pick first, I’m sure.” 

Her mouth crooked up slightly. “Because I wish to please you, of course.” 

Erik stiffened. There was a long space of silence, and Aethelflaed looked down to the sheaf of parchment on her desk again. 

“It is not your duty to please me. I am your thegn.” 

“And all leaders rule by the good will of their thegns, do they not? I must please you, if I’m to put my life into your hands.” 

It was painful, to hear her speak to him like this. Perhaps…perhaps she did not know how her words landed. Egdar’s jest echoed in Erik’s mind and the skin of his neck burned hot at the memory: _Perhaps Lady Aethelflaed has promised him something else entirely_. 

Was this - was _this_ \- why he was going along with such a plan? In the hopes of pleasing her like a well-trained hound? For the wish of receiving some scrap of her affection, her regard —-

_No_. That was unfair. She had always been kind to him, generous even. It was he that was always cold and withdrawn, and now - now, she was trying to please _him_. 

_This is a bad idea_. 

“Well,” he said, and the word came from his mouth with a muddy, unsticking sound. “I will choose my men so that the best shall be left for you. I shall see you in the morning.” He gave a small bow and turned to leave. 

“Thurgilson —” He stopped, straightened, turned slightly. “I have commanded many good men to stay…and guard the fortress,” she continued. “The children…they will be safe here. In case you were worried. For them.” 

“Thank you, Lady.” He tried not to think of a little wooden doll left as an offering on an elf-mound, or of the child who had pledged such a gift for his sake. “I am sure they will be.” 

And he left then, truly, to find his bed, and to find his will for war. 

They stood on the banks of the river, a disorganized crowd of warriors and servants, townsfolk and children who craned and jostled to see the ships bobbing on the water. The sun came weakly through the thin screen of cloud, but it still glinted in sharp points upon rings of shining mail, and on the cuffs of helms that had been polished to a bronze luster.

The Mercians were stiff-backed and somber with the pomp of the morning, their blue cloaks thrown over their shoulders like folded bird’s wings. They would lose their layers with desperate speed once the rowing began, Erik knew. But for now they looked fine and fearsome in their metal. 

Smoke drifted across the gray water from the decks of the ships, where silent monks swung great silver pendants of flaming herbs. Oswey’s voice followed the sweet, acrid smell. 

“Lord in Heaven, our guide and savior, I pray that you bless these ships, that they might be protected, that they may be held in the safety of your Holy love!” 

He spoke with more passion than Erik was used to seeing in the man. 

“May they be free from evil and corruption! May they be free from danger and disaster! May all foul demons and devils flee before them! May the men…and…the women…on these ships hold your righteous work within their hearts, may they be free from corruption, may they….” 

And so it went on. The rhythm of the words became lost in the hum of Erik’s mind. 

He watched Aethelflaed, where she sat astride a roan stallion, its dun-white coat brushed to a gleaming shine. She was dressed in her own peculiar way - half a Lady, half a warrior. She wore a madder-red gown which draped down to her knees, but below its hem Erik could her hart-skin trousers, and her high leather shoes fixed around her ankles with bands of hammered metal. Atop her head lay a a green-gray hood, held to her temple with a circlet of pure gold. And over her body, like the scales of her dragon, her mail shirt rippled and clung to her form. It was hooded, and it capped her shoulders before giving way to the long, tapered sleeves of her overgown. Around her waist was cinched a wide belt of braided leather and tablet weavings, a tiny tapestry rendered in green and drawn-gold thread, winding in the shapes of beasts and angels. Bjarta-Blotha swung from the front, hung even with her waist from two leather loops, its sheath embellished with silver filigree, its pommel of polished horn bright like a bone against her mail. 

That had been Erik’s seax - Bright-Blood - his ancestral blade, given to her in a ritual to seal their bond all those years ago. He had not taken it back, even when she had offered. The mail coat had been a gift of his as well, and he was glad to see it still fit, for it had been fashioned especially for her shape, and now she looked as fierce and as proud and as beautiful as she had on the field of Alnecester five years before. He only hoped it did not weigh too heavy on her. 

Oswey’s prayer was coming to a close. “In the name of the Lord, and in the name of his son Jesus Christ, our blessed savior, may this be done. Amen.” There was echoing rumble, as all the villagers spoke their own word in return, and Erik found his lips turning around the word as well. It was hard not to, when it seemed to live in the air. But his had been a different kind of prayer. 

_Amen_. 

The quay was suddenly churning with activity, as men shouted commands, as warriors, and horses, and the final loads of cargo were directed into place. Erik’s let his eyes leave Aethelflaed as he turned to his own work. 

“Horses to the stern!” He bellowed. “Men to the benches! No sail yet! NO SAIL YET, Eadger, you fool!” The overeager youth dropped the rigging and scurried off towards his seat. 

“There’s no room for your horse, Daga, we spoke of this!” 

The older man tried to protest. 

“I know you think it’s a slight, but we’ll have more horses once Lord Aldhelm meets us in the North. Send it back to the stables! Before I offer it as blood-tithe to the Gods!” 

The man paled at that and disappeared. 

“You’re not coming on my ship. You’re for Lady Aethelflaed’s crew.” 

The woodswoman Clufweart looked up at him with wide brown eyes, her dirty braid swinging across her shoulder. “No,” she said with calm confidence. “She says I’m to go with you.” 

Erik sighed. “She has sent you to punish me then?” 

“Perhaps she has sent me to protect you, Lord.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not your Lord.” 

“You’re my Lord now, aren’t you?”

_For fuck’s sake._ This would be trouble. 

“Make yourself useful, and bring me the goat that’s in the workshop there. Give the boy a penny.” 

“My own penny, Lord?” 

He glared at her, but he tossed her a coin and was slightly surprised when she caught it with ease. But he supposed she did have a strong arm and a quick eye with a bow. Perhaps she would not be a total waste of space. 

Lady Aethelflaed’s crew was nearly settled. He could see across the water to where she sat, beneath a stretched canvas tarp. He knew his ship was meant to go first, and he panicked a bit at the slowness of his own crew. He _had_ left her the best men, it was true. But there was nothing to be done for it now. 

“You!” He commanded a cluster of oarsmen. “Stand there, along the bow.” 

They did not question him, but they looked at him with wary, curious eyes as they blocked the vantage from Aethelflaed’s ship. Clufweart had returned, and the goat trotted behind her on stiff, nervous legs. 

“Bring it here,” Erik said, as quietly as he could make the command. 

“Why a goat, Lord? Or is there nothing better to use to wet your —-”

“Enough.” 

Clufweart silenced herself, but there was a smirk remaining on her wide, round face. 

“Christian men, turn away if you wish!” Erik said to the crew. “I promise I shall not despoil your priest’s blessing.” Some of the men’s eyes had started to widen, their faces turning pale or coloring with red at the realization of what he was going to do. “But I am to captain this ship,” he continued. “And I must sanctify it in my own way.” 

One man coughed, spluttered, found his voice. “The Lady Aethelflaed—”

“The Lady Aethelflaed knows what I am,” was all he said in return. 

He had spoken truth to Aelfwynn. It had been a long time since he had made a real offering. It is was hard sometimes, to make space for the Old Ways, when his life lay so long in Christendom. He knew his luck had gone thin, his _hamingja_ half-starved for lack of feeding, and perhaps that was why his _hugr_ had been so grim of late. But this ship, this ship would bring him back to life. 

And so he had to make an offering. 

The goat was tense, wide-eyed. It smelled its own fate like a horse smells the rain. It was a buck - a young one, Erik realized - and that was good. He held a gentle hand out to it. It flinched, but then calmed as he stroked it slowly and softly. 

“It’s alright,” he whispered, close to its face. He did not look at the men, he did not know if they watched him, or turned from him, or judged him in scorn. But Clufweart still stood close, and he could feel her eyes on him as he drew the blade slowly from his belt. 

“It’s alright,” he said again. “You are going to the God now.” 

The breath huffed in short bursts from the goat’s nostrils, heavy and raw, but he did not bolt. Erik stared into the inky blackness of his eye, and the strange square pupil that sat within it. 

“ _Freyr_ ,” he said, and he did not know if spoke in his own voice or in the voice behind his voice, within his mind. The words came in the tongue of his father, in the Norse which he spoke so rarely now. 

“ _Freyr, son of Njord_ , _take this offering_. _Be fed on it, be fat on it, be full with its blood. Look with favor on this ship, look with favor on these men, look with favor on this voyage — that we may win glory, yes —- but that we may win safety, too…that these men might know peace. I offer to you, Freyr, God of my kin, for it is you who sows the growing field and sings the winnowed grain. I offer that these men may be fat on your peace, as you will be fat on the blood of the goat. I offer to you, Freyr, God of my kin, for Skíðblaðnir sails always on a sweet wind. I offer that your breath may billow our sails and protect us from harm. I offer to you, Freyr, that you may be fat on the blood, that you may bless us, I offer, Freyr, to you, to you, to you I offer, this blood, Freyr — !”_

And he drew the knife across the goat’s throat. It choked, it sighed, its eyes rolled wildly, and then it buckled on its knees and the blood flowed like a red wave across the deck. Several men crossed themselves at the sight of it, but Erik paid them no mind. His was watching the eye, and the light that receded from it, carried by Freyr across the worlds. 

There was a horn blast from Aethelflaed’s ship - a short, sharp sound. It was time to go. Erik stood, wiping his blade on his tunic. 

“Save the body,” he said to a nearby deckhand. “We will cook him, when we reach the Trent.” 

The men were all stuck in queer silence, as if captives of the moment. Clufweart was looking at him with an unfathomable expression on her face. One man stirred awkwardly at his bench, as if to reach for his oar. 

“RAISE ANCHOR!” Erik bellowed, undeterred by their strangeness. “WE ROW NORTH!” 

And he felt the wind sing in response. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, I know. I got excited about exploring all the religious stuff, it was fun. So Act 1 (ish?) wraps up and we get to move into the next stage of the story. Super exciting to share what's coming up next, it's been some of my favorite stuff to write. 
> 
> In terms of the Norse stuff, hamingja is kind of like a guardian spirit/entity/being related to a person's luck or their spiritual strength and fortitude. I think they can also be ancestrally related, so a family might have a hamingja that passes along from parent to child, etc. A lot of this story is actually about Erik's relationship to his family (both the family that is gone, and the family he has created), so I'm excited to explore hamingja more. 
> 
> Hugr means "mind" or "thought" - it's kind of like the inner world, or the personality of a person. So I've interpreted Erik being depressed and distanced from his true self as a weakness or wounding to his "hugr" 
> 
> As relates to the Gods, I've chosen Freyr as the God that Erik is closest to. Although the Norse pantheon is often interpreted as, well, a pantheon, there are some scholars that believe Norse religious practice was more like henotheism. That means that you may believe in the existence of many Gods, but that you generally work most closely with a single God among many. Again, this may have run in families or clans, so one clan would be dedicated to Thor, another to Odin, another to Freyr, etc. Odin is often interpreted as the "King" of the Gods, the All-Father, but some think this is because Odin was the patron God of the most upper ruling class, and so they created the story that their own God was above the others. 
> 
> It is true that warriors may have been more likely to worship Thor or Odin most closely, but I still think Erik’s more of a Freyr man than an Odin or Thor guy. In my AU, he was a farmer before he was a warrior (as were most Vikings), and I think, between him and Sigefrid, he would have been the one to actually settle down and try to make a new life once they had won their war. Maybe his family in general were Freyr worshippers, and Sigefrid was the black sheep in going hard on the Thor/Odin war worship.


	12. The Crow on the Cradle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised Kid Gang, so I have to deliver here. Also, it’s kind of more like Kid Gang: Rugrats Edition, because they’re all little as heck. See notes at the end for more details about how i screwed with their ages (both purposefully and accidentally)
> 
> CW: child endangerment, threats against children, graphic violence

They rode slowly through the village. She did not want to risk drawing any attention. If they rode at speed, Stiorra thought, they’d be more likely to attract the curious, questioning eyes of villagers. 

“They’ll recognize us.” Young Uhtred had been whining since they left. 

“Well if they do, at least we shall not look guilty,” Stiorra said. 

“But we _are_ guilty.” 

“Hush now.” Stiorra pulled the hood of her cloak a little closer around her face. 

It was a relief when they passed through the village’s outer wall, following in the wake of a tanner’s cart. 

“They’ll punish us, for stealing the horses.” It seemed Uhtred was incapable of not worrying. 

“They can’t punish us if they don’t catch us.” 

“They’ll notice that we’re gone.” 

Stiorra jerked the reins of her horse slightly to cross Uhtred’s path. “They won’t notice!” She growled at him. “Anyone who cares about us is already gone! The new Lady only cares about Aelfwynn.” 

Uhtred muttered something under his breath but did not protest. They continued at a walk until the village started to fade behind the crest of a hill. 

“Do you even know the way?” 

“Lady Aethelflaed said it was North,” Stiorra said, squinting at the Sun’s upward path. “How hard can it be? We ride North until we find a war camp.” 

“And father will be there?” Uhtred asked doubtfully. 

“Yes. Lady Aethelflaed summoned him and his thegns.” There was a moment of stiff silence. “Father only cares about war, so we must go to war to find him.” She offered the justification as much for herself as for Uhtred. 

“I still don’t —” But Uhtred’s words were cut off by a sharp breathless cry from behind them, and Stiorra whipped her horse around to see two small figures running towards them with stumbling desperation. 

“Wait!” The closest one cried. 

“Is that —?” 

“ _Aelfwynn!”_ Stiorra yelled. “What the _hell_ are you doing?!”

Aelfwynn had collapsed in a wind-spent pile at the foot of Stiorra’s horse, panting deep ragged breaths. Finric was not far behind. Stiorra noticed that he’d been tasked with carrying the unwieldy lopsided sack that was, presumably, Aelfwynn’s runaway bag. 

“We caught you!” Aelfwynn gasped in joy. “We caught them, Finric!” The little dark-haired boy was wide eyed with frantic exhaustion. “We thought we wouldn’t — you left without us!”

“Of course we left without you!” Stiorra yelled down at her. 

“You left us with the babies!” 

“You _are_ babies!” 

Aelfwynn looked truly wounded at that. She wiped a bit of dirty spittle from her chin. “We’re coming with you.” 

“You are not coming with us!” Uhtred said, with an attempt at fierce sternness that just ended up sounding weakly desperate. “They are not coming with us!” He repeated, looking at Stiorra. 

“You’ll walk back to the village.” Stiorra commanded. “Now.”

“We won’t!” Finric piped up, his eyes filled with the fire of child who’d been set to run a mile with a pack on his back. “We’ll follow your horses, you can’t stop us!” 

“Oh, you think I can’t —?” Stiorra looked around on her saddle for something to throw at them, but came up empty-handed. 

“My father will be there too!” Finric went on. “And Aelfwynn, well…” And he shrugged as if to say, _It’s Aelfwynn_ , _what can you do?_

But Stiorra was fixing her eye backwards on the horizon, where the village had already vanished from view. She turned her horse away from the children and spurred it forward into a trot to continue along their route. 

“What are you doing?” Uhtred asked from behind her, his horse still fixed. 

“What does it look like I’m doing? We’re leaving.” 

“You can’t just leave them here! On the road?! That’s — Lady Aelfwynn! What if she’s kidnapped?” 

“Then that will be her fault.” 

Uhtred’s horse made pace with her own and he reached out to grab her reins. “Stop. Stiorra, stop!” 

Aelfwynn and Finric were limping along after them with bitter resolve. 

“We don’t have time to take them back,” Stiorra said. Uhtred glared at her. “We don’t! We’re already a day behind the war band. We’ll miss them! And then we’ll truly be in danger, do you understand?” 

“Stiorra…” He looked a little like her father then, stern and fierce with a bit of softness squishing out the sides of his glare. 

“Fine,” she said, and she reached down to pick up Aelfwynn by the collar of her dress. The girl squealed as she was lifted onto the horse, but then settled on the saddle quickly, controlling her fluster. Uhtred did the same with Finric, and turned his horse back towards Tamworthig.

“We’re not going back,” Stiorra said coldly. 

“What — ? We’re…we’re _taking_ them?! Stiorra—!” 

“Lady Aethelflaed can deal with them when we get there. We don’t have time, Uhtred.” 

“And if we get them killed?” 

“Then they’ll have gotten themselves killed.” 

“You know we can hear you, right?” Finric asked, but Stiorra just said, “Hush.” 

“Stiorra!” Uhtred cried from behind her. “ Stiorra! I… I think they’ll notice we’re gone now, eh?!” 

She turned back to look at him and gave her most winsome smile. “Best take it at a canter then.” 

She urged her horse forward and did not look back. 

They stopped for the night on the outer edge of a small, tumbledown village. Stiorra had no intention of asking any of the villagers where they were. She didn’t want any impertinent questions about why a group of children should be out on the roads alone. Of course, this had the effect of making it impossible to discover how far they’d gone. But Stiorra was optimistic. 

Still, it was wet. None of them had thought to bring a waxed canvas in their pack, and so they had to settle for the night in the hollow at the base of a great tree, and hope that its leafed boughs dampened the rain. Stiorra raided Aelfwynn’s pack as soon as she was able and found a few stale loaves and bruised apples, Aelfwynn’s finest cloak of woad-dyed wool with embroidered trim, and not one but _two_ carved wooden toys. It would have been almost sweet, if it wasn’t so ridiculous. 

Stiorra thought herself much more reasonable. She had brought a thick, coarsely woven cloak of dun brown wool, a carving knife, a small ax, a length of hempen rope, a spark striker, a water flask, a sack of oats for the horses, and a ration of dried meat in addition to her own stock of bread and apples. The waxed canvas was an oversight ( _What did you even bring the rope for_? she thought to herself bitterly), but otherwise, she imagined herself quite an accomplished scout. 

Uhtred spent a while collecting sticks for the fire, while Stiorra got a coal glowing in her tinder with her iron striker and a chunk of hard flint. But when she tucked the coal into the nest of sticks that Uhtred built, they just smoldered with smoky dampness until the tinder burned down to cold ash. 

“They’re too wet, I think,” Uhtred said. 

“Obviously they’re too wet! What kind of fool can’t gather dry sticks?” 

“They’re all wet, Stiorra! Why don’t you try, and I’ll stay here playing with sparks?” Uhtred reached for the tinder kit, but Stiorra snatched it out of his grasp before he could open it. 

“You’ll just waste all the char-cloth,” she said, a bit cruelly. “We’ll have to sleep without fire tonight.” 

Uhtred glared at her but bit his tongue. He broke a stale loaf apart and handed chunks to of it to the young ones. 

Aelfwynn accepted, using her other hand to wipe the back of her noise noisily. “Stiorra, I’m cold.” 

“We’ll huddle under the cloaks,” Stiorra said, and pulled out Aelfwynn’s fine blue wool. “It’ll be destroyed by the time we get there, but there’s nothing to be done for it. If you had any sense, you’d have brought a horse blanket instead.” 

Aelfwynn sniffed and muttered something that sounded vaguely like “ _couldn’t reach_.” Stiorra’s heart turned a bit at the sight of the girl, cold and small and pale in the thin moonlight, and of Finric, huddled against her as he scarfed down his bread with all the grace of a starved weasel. But then she remembered how utterly _not her fault_ all of this was, and the feeling passed. 

“Stiorra,” Aelfwynn spoke again. “Do you…do you promise we’ll find mother?” 

Stiorra sighed with barely controlled impatience. “I will…do…my…best, Aelfwynn.” The girl gave a little whimper and turned to bury her face in Finric’s dark head. 

“Come. Come now.” Stiorra tried to temper her voice. “Let us huddle down now, before the chill sets in. We shall be warm soon, and…we can eat more in the morning.” 

Aelfwynn nodded wetly, and the children all gathered together in the hollow with Aelfwynn’s fine cloak and Stiorra’s rough cape spread across them. Stiorra held Aelfwynn close against her, and felt the girl’s body shaking slightly with silent tears. 

“Hush now, it will be well,” she whispered into Aelfwynn’s golden hair. 

And soon they were warm and drifting into dream.

The day dawned with a thin light, the sun’s brightness watered down by thick gray clouds. But the sky did not spit at them, and the air warmed quickly, and Stiorra was in good spirits as they continued further North along the rutted Mercian road. At least, she was in as good enough spirits as she could manage, in the present company. 

Aelfwynn was tired, fussy, and hungry. It was only to be expected in a well-spoilt child such as her. Stiorra struggled to not let her frustration boil over too much, but it was hard, as the children started to entertain themselves by telling tales of what they would do once they reached the camp. 

“And my father,” Finric was saying, “my father is Lord Uhtred’s best warrior! And I will ride into battle with him, I think! I will sit on his shoulders and shoot all his enemies with my bow!” 

Aelfwynn giggled. 

“You don’t have a bow, Finric,” Stiorra said wearily. 

“That doesn’t matter! They’re warriors!” He said, as though it were common sense that all warriors had a child-sized bow ready and waiting in case it should be needed. 

“And I should like to ride on the ships,” Aelfwynn said. “It’s unfair, I think, it’s unfair that I shouldn’t get to ride on the ships. They’ll be my ships one day, won’t they, and so how am I to know if they’re any good?” 

Stiorra nearly rolled her eyes into the back of her head. 

“Stiorra.” Uhtred’s voice was low and tense, like a whispered net thrown over the children’s witless batter. “Stiorra, I think that rider’s been following us.” 

Stiorra stayed very still and stiff in her saddle for a moment before turning to look over her shoulder with a light glance. There was a rider behind them - a dark-hooded man on a chestnut horse. Stiorra could not see his face. She turned her head forward again with the swiftness of a breath. 

“He’s a rider, Uhtred,” she whispered back. “He’s just using the road like we are.” 

“I know, but…I think…”Uhtred looked anxiously behind him again. “I’ve been watching him, and I think he’s holding his horse back. Why would he hold his horse back? He could pass us if he wished…”

“What are you talking about?” Finric asked, with a loudness that made Stiorra wince. 

“Nothing,” she snapped. “Shut your mouth.”

“You wouldn’t say that if I had my bow, would you?” 

“Shut up, Finric.” Perhaps it was because this was such an unexpected chide from Uhtred, but Finric did, in fact, shut up.

“Let us speed the horses,” Stiorra said. “They have walked long enough.” 

“And if he speeds up too?” 

Stiorra’s mind flared slightly with panic, and her eyes raked over the road in front of them. “We shall cut off into the trees, beyond that crest. We’ll try to hide.” 

“Who are we hiding from?” Aelfwynn asked, with an equally ear-splitting pitch. 

“No one,” Uhtred said. “We’re playing a game. Testing ourselves. Can you be very quiet?” 

Aelfwynn nodded with wide eyed excitement, and Finric gave a wild grin. _Idiot children_. _Foolish, ridiculous, Gods-cursed, idiot children_. 

She had to protect them. 

“We go,” she whispered. “Three….two….one…NOW!” She kicked the horse savagely, and it bolted forward like a spooked doe. Uhtred’s horse kept pace, each one egging the other on with sudden, wild fear. 

“He’s following!” Uhtred cried. “He’s matching our speed!” 

Stiorra did not look back. She kicked her horse again, up and over the slope until she saw the copse of trees to the right of the road. Then she jerked the reins with all her strength, and the horse veered with a slight scream, kicking up mud with its pawing hooves. She thought she couldvanish into the thicket, but then she saw that Uhtred had driven his horse to the left. 

_Damn the Gods!_ She had not said which side of the road, assuming Uhtred’s mind lay equal with her own. 

“Uhtred!” She yelled in a hoarse whisper, and he turned with a wild cry, seeing her half-snarled in the facing brush. Stiorra could hear the rider’s horse drumming just over the cusp of the hill. Uhtred charged forward across the road, and together they crashed deeper into the wood, but the snap and rustle of their horses was deafening, and Stiorra could see the silhouette of the man as he crested the hill and drew his horse to a stop. 

Stiorra slid off her horse, pulling Aelfwynn with her, and Uhtred did the same. 

Aelfwynn squirmed and whimpered in her rough grip. “What’s happening? I thought—” but Stiorra covered the girl’s mouth with her hand. 

“Hush. Get down!” 

Finric was wide-eyed with fear and confusion, and there were two high spots of red on Uhtred’s face as he struggled to push the boy down into the brush. 

“What if he’s from Tamworthig?” Uhtred whispered. “What if the new Lady sent him to find us?” 

“They wouldn’t send just one man!” Stiorra had had the same thought and abandoned it. “He must be a rogue.” And if wasn’t….well, they couldn’t risk being found either way, could they?

The man had tethered his horse by the road and was stalking through the thicket with the careful movements of a hunting cat. 

“I know you’re in here, little ones!” His accent was Mercian, his English clear and true. _A Saxon_. It made little difference to Stiorra. 

Aelfwynn squirmed again, and then bit Stiorra’s fingers where they clamped over the girl’s mouth. She could not suppress a small cry. 

“For _God’s sake,_ Aelfwynn!” 

“I couldn’t breathe!” 

The man’s head snapped up at the sound, and Stiorra thought she could see his face sharpen through the shadow of his hood. He drew it down, as if to hear better, and his pale, scarred face came into view. Stiorra had never seen him before. He had not come from Tamworthig. 

“I can hear you, little ones!” Stiorra’s blood chilled and the cool, cloying shape of his voice. He knew where they were. It would have been impossible not to see the shape of horses against the fine screen of leaves. He was playing with them. 

“I just want to share your fire! To make sure that you’re safe! Little ones like you shouldn’t be out on the road, alone.”

“This isn’t a game, is it?” Finan’s spoke with a high breathy whisper, his chest pumping like a bellows. 

Stiorra shared a grim look with Uhtred. There was no doubt in either of their minds anymore. This man would do them harm. 

“The pack,” Stiorra whispered hoarsely. “Give me the pack.” 

Uhtred slid it off his body and rolled it towards her as quietly as he could. She snaked her hand inside of it, finding each item in turn - a smooth Ashen handle, a rough cord…

“Get the children and the horses deeper in.” 

“What are you —-?” 

“Now!” 

Uhtred moved with a strange, sliding stumble, trying to crouch and run and pull the horses all at once. If the trees had decided to pull up their roots and walk away through the thicket, it could not have made more noise than he did in that moment. But there was nothing to be done for it. 

The man was moving faster now, but still with the careful, stalking quality of a predator. He did not think they would get away. He did not think they _could_ get away. 

Stiorra tied the rope with fumbling fingers, drawing rough, weak knots and weaving the cord through the interlocking stems of brambles. Her hands and arms were shredded by the thorns in a matter of moments. She could hear the fading sounds of the horses, and the high notes of the children’s voices as they vanished into the brush. 

She was alone now. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to Uhtred for his trust. 

She rose to her feet, and the man’s eyes widened at the sight of her, exposed and alone just a few paces from where he stood. He stopped, and his face drew into a sharp-edged grin. Standing so close, Stiorra could see how rough his face was, and how darkly his eyes pooled within it. 

“Little girls like you shouldn’t be out alone. Someone might try to steal you.” 

Stiorra could feel herself trembling. She balled her hands into tight fists until the shaking stopped. 

“They’d have to catch me first,” she said. And she turned and ran. 

The man crashed after her through the brush with loud, gasping grunts of effort — or of laughter. She could not tell. She had to fight the brambles too, and panic started to rise thick and sour in her throat like bile. He would catch her, he would catch her and…

But then she heard the strangled cry and the thump, as he was leveled by her rope, tripping over it and becoming ensnared in the mess of blackberry vines. 

“You little bitch!” He yelled after her. “You think you’re clever?!” 

She could have kept running. She could have taken her lead, found Uhtred and the others and fled on the horses. But he would have followed them, she knew. 

Instead she turned, and stalked back to him. She was so thorn-whipped by now that the scratching, clawing fingers of the thicket did not faze her. The man was still struggling, trying to disentangle himself, but he had nothing to grasp onto but thorn-thick canes, and so he floundered in her trap. She kicked him as hard as she could, where his head met his body. He gave a scream and flailed against the ground. 

“You’re going to kill me, little girl?” He gasped the words out, and then spat. Stiorra was pleased to see his spittle flecked red with blood. 

“And if I leave you here?” She asked. “What will you do? Go back to your horse and ride South until you reach the Frankish sea?” 

He laughed, a cruel low groaning sound in his throat. “I will kill you, little bitch. You think you can outrun me?” 

Stiorra did not want to kill him. She had dreamt of battle and the glory of the fight, but the pale skin of his throat leered up at her now, and she thought it was a ridiculous, foolish thing to have ever thought she could kill a man. She imagined a blade in his neck, and the bile rose to her throat truly then, thick and bitter and searing like a coal. 

But then she thought of Aelfwynn, and the feeling of the little girl wrapped her arms, so warm and heavy and foolish and brave. 

Stiorra had to protect her. She had to protect them all. 

The man was pushing himself up onto his elbows, his face twisting with wickedness as he opened his mouth to speak again. The smooth ax handle was tight in her hand, its head glinting with a newly sharpened edge. 

And then — somehow — it was buried in the man’s neck, like a plow in a fresh-driven field, and he was choking on the blood that flowed from his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you’re wondering about ages - Stiorra is 12, Young Uhtred is 10, Aelfwynn is 5 and Finric is 5. Aelfwynn is much younger than Stiorra here than she is in canon (book canon at least) because Uhtred’s kids’ births are more consistent with the canon timeline, whereas Aethelflaed/Erik/Aelfwynn’s story has been pushed a bit in the timeline. I wasn’t kidding about that spreadsheet. It exists. 
> 
> Also, I realized after doing all the figuring, that Stiorra is actually younger than Young Uhtred in canon (WHOOPS), but I’m just rolling it with now. I like her being the boss. If the show can just pretend that Osbert doesn’t exist, and act like Aelfwynn is like 8 when Aethelflaed takes power in Mercia (she wasn’t) then I can do this, lol!


	13. The Nine Herbs Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is late! It's rather long, and also feels a bit messy. I've been somewhat distracted this week, I got really sucked into writing another Aethelrik fic. It's a kinky, emotionally raw college AU re-telling of their story. There's 3/5 chapters published so far, and I admit, I am quite pleased with it. If you're interested you can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051491/chapters/68722026
> 
> I promise I will get back on track with Fate and Folly! I am not losing steam on the story, and will hopefully get a lot of work done over the Christmas holiday! :)

They camped at Hwiccenofre. It was as good a place as any. They had plowed through the churning waters of the confluence where the Tame flowed into the Eastward-streaming Trent. Villages and docks clustered like boils on the banks of the river, but they moored the ships on the clear Northern edge of the Trent, where a high meadow stretched up from the water. The land there was not too wet, and it gave it a good vantage on the surrounding area. 

The camp sprung up quickly, like flies on a carcass - tents, privy pits, makeshift stables - all of it overseen by the great ships which sat like beasts in their berths. Some men stayed on the ships, but it was decided that it would be safer for Aethelflaed to rest on land, where she could be guarded from any attack on water.

Oswey had already set up a crude alter - little more than a wooden cross beneath a stretched canvas for men to come say prayers and make penance. 

“We’ll only be here for a day or so,” Aethelflaed had said, as she had watched him fuss over it. “Until Lord Uhtred’s men arrive.” She was sitting on her carved wooden chair lined with furs, taking some rest and trying to swallow the nausea that had followed her since leaving the ship. 

“Yes,” Oswey said, a bit impatiently. “And men need God’s grace _everyday_ to keep their souls pure. At least, they should.” And he cast a doubtful eye out across the camp, as if expecting to catch an impure soul in the act. 

“You’re right,” she said. “Of course you’re right.” 

Oswey gave her a dark look. “I’ve heard that your shipman Thurgilson sacrificed a goat onboard the _Rífa_.” 

Aethelflaed gave a tired sigh. 

“Do you not see it as a desecration? Of the Christian blessing? An insult to the Christian men aboard the ship?” 

“He is a heathen, Oswey.”

“And we are not a heathen army — ”

“If our God is the true God — as we know He is. And if His word reigns eternal — as we know it does…then what harm can Erik’s ritual cause? God’s will shall prevail.” 

Oswey’s mouth twisted. “I am not certain it works like that, Lady.” 

“And in the absence of certainty, we must trust in God’s grace. Is that not what the priests say?”

He simply said, “Lady,” in a tone of weary finality. It was neither assent nor dissent, but at least he stopped nagging her. 

The next day hit Aethelflaed like a runaway horse. She woke with a dizzy ache in her head, a dry hollow heaving in her side, a dull grinding pain in her limbs. It was not a surprise anymore, when the sickness came, but still it filled her with a deep sense of dread and shame. She was disgusted by her weakness, and secretly terrified that others would come to know the truth of it and cease to trust her to lead. 

“Audr,” she called upon waking, her voice thin and strained. 

“Lady?” Audr rushed to Aethelflaed from across the tent. “What is it?” She took in Aethelflaed’s pale and trembling form. “Not the illness again?”

Aethelflaed merely nodded, her eyes closed against the pain. 

“Shit.” 

Aethelflaed smiled at Audr’s coarse and truthful tongue. “My thoughts exactly,” she agreed. 

“I will make the potion for you, Lady,” Audr assured. “Although, I will have to seek out the fresh herbs here, it may take longer.” 

“Tell Birger to ease the men. There will be no travel today, even if Uhtred does arrive. Tell him… I am sorry.”

“Of course, Lady. It is not your fault. Do not despair. It will ease soon, I am certain.”

“I am always certain of your care, Audr.”

Audr gave a tense smile before vanishing from the tent, leaving Aethelflaed alone in her torment.

Erik watched the river water slide by, slow and silty brown, almost languid in its sluggishness. It felt somehow like a reflection of his own muddy heart, of the strange, stagnant flow of his life, carried between a bank built by something — someone — other than himself. His mind shied away from the knowledge of his own petulance. It was unfair, he knew, for this was all half his own plan, and it was a worthy plan. Even if it felt an ache to even be here. 

The boards of the ship deck creaked behind him and he turned from the rail to see Birger, looking at him with weary restraint. The man had taken off his helmet and mail, exposing his head of messy brown curls, his pale green tunic, the wooden cross that hung heavy from his neck. 

“No sign of Uhtred and his merry men?” Erik asked, spitting an apple pip into the water. He had eaten the whole fruit, down to its core, but his stomach still felt hollow and sour. 

“No sign of Uhtred,” Birger confirmed. He was not at ease, Erik noticed, and the sight of it snagged at him. “And even if there was,” Birger continued. “We would not travel today.” 

“Why?” Erik scoffed. 

“Well…I’m sure Uhtred would want rest…for himself and his men.”

“Don’t be daft. Uhtred knows the sense of swift travel through the Boroughs, as do we. He will want to move.” 

“Perhaps.” Birger’s tense posture was starting to blast in Erik’s mind like the horn of an alarm. Erik turned to face the man full-on.

“What is it, Birger? Is it Aethelflaed’s will? To dally here for no reason?” The blame came quick to his tongue, but it brought a taste of shame in it wake. 

Birger’s gaze sharpened. “No — ease yourself, man.” His face twisted with discomfort. “I should not be telling you this.” 

“But you are going to tell me. Clearly.” 

Birger let out a reluctant sigh. “She is ill, Erik. Lady Aethelflaed. She is possessed by some sickness.”

Erik’s stomach dropped as if from a short, sharp fall, and the sense of shame deepened as his blame for her turned sour, abandoned.“Illness? Is it…is it the flying one? The land-stalker?” 

“No,” Birger kept his voice low, shushing Erik with his hand. “No…it is not pestilence, I don’t think. It may be the dwarf fever, I do not know. She has been possessed of it before, Erik.” 

There was a knot in Erik’s throat. “Perhaps it is just the birth wound, she was weak after the birth…”

“I do not know, Erik!” Birger’s mood spilled into exasperation. “I am not a leech, I do not mumble over herbs! But the evil has gotten worse, I know.” 

“Why was I not told of this?”

“What reason would you have to be told of it?” Birger voice was harsh, and Erik tried to control his fluster. But then the other man softened and eased a bit. “I do not think she wished you to know,” he amended. “I do not think she wishes anyone to know.”

Erik nodded distantly. “I will go to her.” 

Birger’s eyes widened, his brow creased. “I don’t know if that is wise, Erik.” 

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But I think I will do it anyway.” 

“There was plenty of Weighbread in the camp,” Audr explained, her voice pitched in a calming tone that Aethelflaed knew was meant to ease and distract her. It worked some of the time. “The only challenge was finding some unspoiled by piss and horse shit.” Aethelflaed laughed lightly at Audr’s joke. “I will start the water simmering on the fire, while I seek out the other herbs.” Aethelflaed nodded and swallowed. She sometimes felt like a small child under Audr’s care, but she did not always mind the feeling. It was pleasant to be taken care of. 

“Will you be well while I am gone?” Audr asked. “Or shall I send Clufweart to keep you company?” 

Aethelflaed shook her head in mock horror. “Anyone but Clufweart!” she said in jest. 

“Anyone?” Audr asked, her face flashing sharp and suggestive. Aethelflaed only blinked in response. 

Aldun’s voice spoke up front outside the tent door. “Lady Aethelflaed, the priest is here to see you.” 

Audr looked at her desperately, shaking her head and mouthing “NO,” as emphatically as she could. Aethelflaed smothered a laugh. “Let him in, Aldun,” she said. “He must know the truth, Audr! I cannot hide it,” she added, sotto voce. 

Audr only gave her a grim look as Oswey entered and swept his gaze across the small room. “Lady….” He started, clearly confused. “You are unwell, Lady?” 

“I am, Oswey.” Oswey did not know how often the sickness came for her. She had hid that as well as she could. But there was nothing to be done for it now.

“Do the men know, Lady?” 

“No,” she said, her voice a bit hoarse. “The men cannot know. They will say…they will say I have been ridden by an ogre.” 

Oswey’s face went a bit pink, but he raised an eyebrow archly. “And have you, Lady?” 

“Not that I’m aware of,” Aethelflaed replied, with equal dryness. 

“She has not been ridden by an ogre!” Audr’s exasperation boiled over. She spoke with disdainful authority. “She had been shot in the blood. There is aelf-poison in her veins. I will banish it.” 

Oswey gave them both a tense look. 

“It is not the first time, Oswey,” Aethelflaed explained. “Audr’s magic works. Let it rest.” 

“Lady —” he said, unwilling or unable to hold his tongue. “Some would say…that it is a lack of God’s grace. Or that it is a test…of the purity of your faith.” 

Audr made a noise of disgust, but Aethelflaed spoke over her. “And do you say that, Oswey? Do you say I am whore to the Devil?” There was a surge of pain behind her throat as she spoke. It shot up in her head so that she winced, closing her eyes and letting the words die weakly on her tongue. She tried very hard not to interpret it as a sign. 

“I say…I say God works in unfathomable ways. But Lady….” Oswey hazarded a glance in Audr’s direction, then soldiered on. “You should let me speak a prayer, let me give a blessing on your healing.” 

Aethelflaed nodded. “I would like that, Oswey.” The pain was pressing in on her, like hands clamped around her head. She was dizzy with it, and did not see if Oswey moved to speak. Either way, she cut him off. “At Audr’s will.” 

She heard a small triumphant noise from Audr, and imagined Oswey’s glare, and she thought they might have words. But at that moment, there was a small outburst of raised voices from without the tent - men arguing, and then Aldun’s voice tense with protest. 

“Thurgilson, you cannot —” Erik’s face emerged through the tent flap. Aethelflaed thought she must have gone even paler than she already was. 

“Erik!” Audr exclaimed in surprise. 

“I am sorry, Lady,” Aldun was saying. “He forced his way through. I was not sure whether you wanted him dead or not.” 

Erik tossed a glare at Aldun, as if daring the younger man to try. When he turned back to look at Aethelflaed, his face was drawn. Aethelflaed felt a flush of self-conscious shame at her state. She thought she must have looked utterly foul in that moment. 

“I heard you were taken ill, Lady,” he said, “and I…” His voice trailed off and his forehead creased above his wide blue eyes. He noticed Oswey standing stiffly in the corner for the first time, but then seemed to decide immediately to ignore him. 

“It is the _þurs?”_ He asked, half to Aethelflaed and half to Audr. “Has the _þurs_ made a wound on you? Or the dwarf fever —”

“It is not the _þurs_!” Audr protested. “There is aelf-poison in her blood!” 

Oswey interjected. “Lady — discount this Pagan nonsense, it is a test of your faith, nothing more —”

“We should make an offering, should we not?” Erik asked, slightly panicked. 

“We should _pray!”_ Oswey gave an answering glare. 

Aethelflaed struggled up in the bed, opening her mouth to speak, and the argument stalled as they all turned to look at her. But instead of words, she felt her gorge rising, a hot sick swell in her throat. She bent forward with a gasp and vomited off the side of the bed, unable to give any care for the sake of the floor. 

There was a quiet, tense moment. Erik’s face went white. Oswey’s eyes widened, even as he tried to discreetly turn away from the sight of it. Audr’s nostrils flared. 

“Get out!” She cried. “All of you! Get out!” 

Oswey did not need a second word, he simply nodded and turned swiftly, vanishing from the tent. Erik was fixed like a stone. 

“You are not helping, Erik,” Audr said through clenched teeth. 

“How—” Erik’s voice was hoarse. His eyes didn’t leave Aethelflaed’s face. She looked away, embarrassed. “How can I help?” He asked finally, looking to Audr. 

She raised an eyebrow, her face shifting with thoughtfulness. “Are you familiar with Mugwort?” She asked. “It’s an herb.” 

Erik nodded tentatively. “I think so.” 

“Its leaves are deeply cut and divided,” she explained, holding out her hand in front of her. “Kind of like…fingers off a palm.” She traced the outline of her fingers, then turned her hand so that the palm faced upward. “If you turn the leaves over, they are silvery and soft beneath, like moonlight.” Aethelflaed was enraptured by her purposeful, gentle movements. She spoke as if she was weaving a spell. “If you crush it, it will smell sharp and bittersweet, like the smoke from an altar.” 

Erik was enraptured too, and he nodded with wide eyes at Audr’s instructions. “I know it,” he said. 

“Good,” she said sharply, breaking the spell. “You should find some up by the edge of the woods.” 

Erik blinked at her, still looking lost in the moment. Audr strode over to Aethelflaed with her knife out. The gesture did not startle her, for she was used to it, although it did feel slightly more awkward in the context. Audr cut a few fine hairs from the end of Aethelflaed’s braid. She wrapped them carefully in a scrap of linen and handed the bundle to Erik. 

“You must sprinkle these, when you pick the herb,” she explained. “And speak to the herb, speak what they are needed for.” Erik nodded again, his face more confused. “You know how to pray in the old way, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good.” She let out a breath. “Now get out.” 

Erik scrambled up the small slope to the wood’s edge, where the overgrown hay meadow was turning to bramble vines and shooting stalks of coppiced Ash. He walked along the edge, taking pleasure in the sweet coolness that he found in the fringe of shade. 

The linen bundle was still held tightly in his half hand, and he swore that he could feel it burning slightly in his palm. Was this Audr’s magic? Or was it something else that burned beneath his skin? He thought of Aethelflaed then, unable to keep his mind from the memory of her face any longer – her pale skin, the slick sheen of sweat on her brow, the dullness in her eyes. She had clenched her jaw when she had seen him, her eyes creasing in discomfort, and the memory of it ate at him.

He saw it out of the corner of his eyes first, Sage green and tall - like a spire of unfolding hands reaching towards the sky. He knew it was the right plant as clearly as he knew his own name. It was as if it called out to him and drew him in. His fingers fumbled over the linen bundle, and as he opened it, Aethelflaed’s fine hairs tumbled out onto the earth where the Mugwort grew. He felt suddenly self-conscious, trying to find his voice in front of the Gods. But soon the words came.

“Freya…” he muttered lowly. “First witch, goddess of the old magic, singer of healing song…Freyr, ancient one, whose body warms the earth, who seed sows each plant and fruit… I pray, that in your names, this herb shall be a healing gift, so that…so that someone…” his voice faltered and cracked a bit. “So that someone I love may be free from the evil sickness… so that she may heal and grow strong again. I pray, in the name of my gods, and in the name of hers as well, that this may be so.”

It had not been part of Audr’s instructions, but he pierced the flash of his thumb with the tip of his knife in the thick spot where it met his palm. He squeezed nine drops of blood onto the dry earth.

He did not think again on his prayer, or the words that had come to him, as he cut stalks of mugwort cleanly with his knife. He would not let them cause him embarrassment or grief. They dwelt only in the space between him and his Gods now. 

Aethelflaed drifted in and out, in a sour daze, waiting for Audr to return. She was roused by a quiet rustling at the bench and struggled up to see Erik, placing a bundle of Mugwort lightly down on the wooden table. He saw her looking at him, and cast his eyes down. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady.” 

“I thought you were Audr,” she said, a bit sheepishly. 

“A disappointment then, I’m sure.” 

“No, I—” She spoke without thinking and regretted it. Erik’s eyes widened slightly. “I do not mind,” she finished quietly. Erik seemed uncertain what to do with his body. He stood stiff and worked his hands against each other, as if turning something small within them. He did not speak. 

“I thought you would be… frustrated with me,” Aethelflaed said, after a long moment of strained silence. 

“For what?” 

“For…keeping us here, for keeping us back.”

A long pause. “That is not your fault. We await Uhtred’s men either way.” 

Aethelflaed’s breath eased from her chest with a strange turn of her heart. So, he did not blame her, but he still held something else in him, she knew, something like a bitter coal. 

“I know you do not wish to spend any time with me.” 

“I…” Erik stalled, his expression stricken. 

She saw the sting of her words on his face. She knew the violation of it, to speak so plainly, to speak so crudely to the truth of what they’d long known but never said. But somehow, she couldn’t stop her speech. 

“I know you do not wish to even be here, that I forced you to come here with me, and now I do not know why you are in this tent at all, when do you not even want to look at me —”

“ _Aethelflaed._ ” His voice was a reprimand, and it was the force of his tone as much as the force of her name, the sound of it from his mouth, that struck her into silence. She felt suddenly light-hearted and dizzy and sick with regret. 

“Lady —” he amended, with urgency. But he seemed he had nothing else to say. What else could he say? They both knew the truth of it. 

“Thank you,” she said. “For the Mugwort. Audr will be grateful.”

“And are you? Grateful?” His face was hard and unreadable. 

“Did I not just say _thank you —_?” 

The tent flaps rustled and Audr pushed inside, already speaking with breathless frustration. 

"It took forever to find the watercress," she was saying, fumbling with the leather sack that hung around her waist. "I had to go half a mile… up the bank…" her voice trailed off as she finally realized what she had walked into. "I…" she stammered, looking awkward. 

Erik stood up abruptly, his face oddly flushed. "I should leave," he said. He gave one searing glance at Aethelflaed. It was like the punch of a knife in her gut. Then he was gone.

Audr still stood, her eyes wide with a suggestive expression, a smile twisting at the corner of her lips.

"Say nothing,” Aethelflaed commanded."I do not wish to hear it.”

Audr’s smile widened." I do not know what you could be talking about, Lady.”

She took in Audr’s suggestive smile with a bitter ache. If only she knew how wrong she was about it all. 

"Do your spell, won't you? My head is about to burst.”

Audr bowed in jest. Aethelflaed laughed, despite herself. Audr never bowed. "As my Lady commands.”

Aethelflaed had watched many times before, as Audr prepared her potion. Yet it still sent a tickle down her spine and she felt a thick, taut feeling settle over the room like heavy dust. Audr crushed each herb into her small cauldron, which bubbled over the tent’s open fire.

“Remember, Mugwort,” she said. Her voice was light and also deep with something old and slightly unnerving. “Remember what you made known, what you arranged at the great becoming. You were called Una, oldest of herbs.” 

Audr spoke in her own tongue, but Aethelflaed’s Danish was strong, and the words did not twist from the grasp of her mind. 

“You are powerful against three and thirty. You are powerful against poison and sickness. You are mighty against the evil foe that stalks the land.” 

The Mugwort simmered in the water, and its potent bittersweet smell filled the room. Aethelflaed tried not to think of Erik’s hand picking the stalks of Mugwort, or of him praying to his Gods in her name. 

“And you, waybread,” Audr continued, tearing the wide oval Plantain leaves into the pot. "You are the mother of herbs, you who open to the East, you with might inside. Over you chariots creaked, over you queens rode, over you brides wept, over you bulls snorted. All of it you withstood, and stood against, and so shall you stand against the poison and the sickness, and the evil foe who stalks the land.”

So she continued, calling forth each of the herbs in her queer pagan way, stirring them into the simmering water with a measured rhythm. When she was done, she took the pot carefully from the fire and strained the liquid through a coarse cloth into a wide shallow bowl. 

It was a dark, earthy green, and Aethelflaed knew that it would taste awful - like bitter dirt and sour broth. But it would help. So she would drink it. 

“These nine herbs prevail against nine poisons,” Audr continued speaking over the steaming water. “A worm came crawling, but it killed nothing, for Odin took nine glory twigs —” she cut off suddenly, her concentration breaking, as she noticed Aethelflaed nervously touching the cross she wore on her neck. 

“You are not at ease, Lady?” She asked quietly. 

“No…I am…it’s fine. I do not wish to break your spell.”

“It will be fine,” Audr assured. “You do not wish me to speak of Odin? You have never minded before.” 

“I…I have not minded,” Aethelflaed agreed. “I trust your magic, even if I do not know your Gods.”

“But…?” Audr asked, her eyebrows raised. 

Aethelflaed winced, reluctant to speak the words. “But I fear…perhaps Oswey is right. Perhaps this is a punishment. For my lack of faith.” 

Audr laughed. “You are a good Christian, Lady. You pray every day! I do not know how you find the fortitude for it.” 

“I practice, yes.” The intensity rose slightly in Aethelflaed’s voice. “I know how to kneel and…speak words into the air. It is…the faith in my heart that I doubt. As Lady of Mercia, I must lead with God. But I fear that God is not with me.” 

Audr looked at her for a long moment, her eyes kind and thoughtful. “Would you rather I say Christ, rather than Odin? I will do it for you, if you wish.” 

Aethelflaed sighed in relief. “I would like that, Audr. Thank you.” 

Audr smiled, her face crooked slightly. “It is still a Pagan prayer, Lady.” 

“I know.” Aethelflaed said, wincing slightly as she laughed. “But it works, does it not?” 

“I think so. Your God should forgive you for seeking relief where you can.” 

Aethelflaed nodded, although her heart was still in turmoil. Audr took a breath and restarted the final prayer. 

“A worm came crawling, but it killed nothing, for Christ took nine glory-twigs. He struck the adder so that it flew into nine parts. So these nine herbs prevail against nine poisons, against nine infections, and nine evil spirits, against red poison and foul poison, against white poison and blue poison, against yellow poison and green poison, against black poison and brown poison and crimson poison, against any poison from the east, and any poison from the south…” 

So it continued for some time. Aethelflaed lost herself in the hum and lull of it, the low rhythmic tone of Audr’s chanting. She knew that soon peace would come, and she was grateful for it. 

Finally Audr came to the prayer’s last lines. “Christ stood over all the diseases of men. I alone know a running stream, and the nine adders beware of it. May all the weeds spring up from their roots, may all seas slip apart, full of salt water. Now I shall blow this poison from you.” Audr blew lightly over the bowl, sending her prayerful words into the potion. She carried it over slowly to Aethelflaed’s bed, being careful not to spill a drop. 

“It is quite cool now, Lady,” she assured. Aethelflaed took the bowl and drank, not stopping until it was drained, not letting its foul taste rest on her tongue. She handed the empty bowl back to Audr, wincing as she lowered herself back onto the pillows. 

“Thank you, Audr.” Audr said nothing, she only brushed back the damp hair from Aethelflaed’s forehead. She squeezed Aethelflaed’s arm gently before getting up. 

“Rest now, Lady,” she said. And soon Aethelflaed did find her peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes on the chapter: 
> 
> There are countless books and articles written on the subject of Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse illness and healing, and there is a lot of information to sort through. This is an imperfect sketch based on my limited knowledge. 
> 
> It appears that both Christian Saxons and Pagan Norse/Danes would have possibly interpreted illness as a possession by an evil or foul spirit - an ogre (thurs), a dwarf (dweorg) or an elf (aelf). It could also be a curse laid on the sufferer by such a being. I.e. being “aelf-shot” (struck with harmful magic by an elf); being ridden by a dwarf as if you were its horse; in some cases, being sexually violated by an ogre (a thurs) or a similar spirit.
> 
> The practice of Anglo-Saxon leechcraft (healing arts) would have likely been a functional mix between these more Pagan elements and heavily Christianized perspectives relating to God’s blessing, or God’s displeasure, or a test of faith from God. I’ve rendered Oswey as being high-minded and quick to dismiss elf-lore, although this was likely not a hard line held by all Saxon priests. The two perspectives could, of course, co-exist (possession by a demon as evidence of unholiness / God’s displeasure). However, Oswey respects Aethelflaed too much to believe/say this, and so he must instead discount it entirely and frame it as a test from God. 
> 
> The Nine Herbs Charm is a real Anglo-Saxon charm which appears in the 10th century manuscript Lacnunga (Leechcraft, or “Remedies”). There are many similar charms that have a clear Pagan undertone to them such as this one. This particular charm even references Woden once, but later glosses the deity to Christ - as Audr does in this chapter for Aethelflaed’s benefit. 
> 
> Aethelflaed is someone who, by nature of her life experiences, must entertain all possibilities for healing. She has a healthy amount of deep-rooted Christian fear and guilt, but she is also highly pragmatic, so she trusts in Audr’s potions because she knows that they work. 
> 
> The herbs in Audr’s “potion” are taken from the Nine Herbs charm. It is hard to translate all of the herbs with absolute certainty, but many scholars agree that they include: Mugwort, Plantain, Bittercress, Nettle, Chamomile, Crab Apple, Thyme, Fennel, and Betony. These herbs, given in the right proportions, would certainly have had a beneficial effect in helping to treat what Aethelflaed is suffering from.


	14. Grani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perspective switch to a new OC! Yes, another OC, just what this story needed, I know! (I jest).
> 
> CW: misogyny, sex, violence (all separate scenes)

The meat was bad. It was tough, thick with gristle, overcooked and dry. Grani did not even know what beast it came from. But such fare was to be expected. All the good meat was for Sigfrothr’s men. 

Thorkel and Ofeig did not seem bothered. They ate with relish, and Thorkel spoke loudly through his food. “And then, then the horse nearly bit off my hand —”

“Hush!” Grani commanded. “I’m trying to listen.” He nodded up to the high table, where Sigfrothr sat in conversation with their Lord Ulf. 

Thorkel blinked at him. “And I am trying to eat. And talk. Go lurk in a corner if you wish to be a spy.” 

Grani turned sourly back to his drink. He could stomach no more of the meat. 

“They are speaking of war, and slaves, and silver,” Thorkel said. “There. Now you know, and you can ease your mind and your mood.” 

“And is Sigfrothr our King now?” Grani asked. “Can you tell me that, smart ass?” 

Thorkel snorted. “He has more men. He has more ships. If he wishes to call himself King, I suppose he can.” 

“And does Lord Ulf wish to call him King?” 

“What am I, a fucking seer? I don’t know. Go back to your spying, fool.” Thorkel waved a hand and they laughed together for a moment. But Grani did turn his eyes back to the high table, and tried to read the shape of their lips as they spoke. 

Grani had served Lord Ulf since he was little more than a boy, which was not so long ago, in truth. Grani was only nineteen. But he thought he had come to know the Lord’s moods and his manners, the twist of his face when he was pleased or displeased. Such knowledge was a matter of some importance, in the hall of Danish Jarl. Grani thought that Ulf was displeased now. 

Ulf’s face turned suddenly and his eyes met Grani’s with a sharp, searing look. Grani startled, and the Lord gestured, beckoning him up to the table. 

“Look at you, caught in your game,” Thorkel laughed. “Your eyes are too sharp for your own good, boy.” 

“Shut up,” was all Grani said, as he pushed off the bench and wound his way up to his Lord. 

Sigfrothr was a smaller man than Grani had expected. What he lacked in stature, he made up for with presence. His eyes were very keen, a deep, piercing blue, and his long red beard was braided with many bones and silver beads. Beside him, white-haired Ulf looked bigger, but also somehow quieter, like a dimmer shade of light.

Grani bowed deeply to them both, as he stood across the table from them. “Lord Ulf. Lord Sigfrothr.” 

Sigfrothr smiled but there was a coldness in his eyes as looked Grani up and down. Ulf was always severe, but he did not have the same sharp edge to him. 

“Grani,” Ulf said now. “I have a job for you.” 

“An honor, my Lord, I am sure.” 

“Lord Sigfrothr has heard a rumor that the Saxon Queen Aethelflaed is traveling North into Daneland.” 

“The Mercian cunt,” Sigfrothr cut in. “Those were my words, I believe.” 

“That is what I said,” Ulf assured. He turned back to Grani. “She is Alfred’s daughter. She may pose a risk.” 

“She is a woman and a whore,” said Sigfrothr. “I am not afraid of her.” 

Ulf turned to Sigfrothr, the lines of his body slightly tense. “But you want information, do you not?” 

Sigfrothr gave his cold little smile again. “Always, Lord Ulf.” 

Ulf turned back to Grani. “This is what you shall do, Grani. You shall ride West, into Saxon Mercia. You shall find their camp, and you shall watch. Bring word when they move, and if they travel by land or by water, and how many men they bring in their host. I trust you can see to this, Grani.” 

“I can, Lord.” Grani bowed again, his mind spinning with excited anticipation. “I will not let you down.” 

“Good.” It was a word of dismissal, Grani knew, but he could not quell the burst of curiosity in his chest. 

“And do you plan to fight her, Lord? The Lady Aethelflaed?” 

Now Ulf’s eyes were cold as he surveyed Grani. “That depends, Grani. On when they move. And how they travel. And how many men they bring in their host.” 

Sigfrothr chuckled at Grani’s humiliation. 

“Yes, Lord.” Grani spoke the words to the floor. 

“Leave at first light,” Ulf commanded. “Take what you need for the journey. You are dismissed.” 

Grani turned and left the table, and even the small moment of shame was not enough to dampen his rising spirits. 

Grani took his horse from the barn as the first fingers of light crept over the horizon. The morning held a chill; the cold earth still battled the warm air through the dark hours of the night, but he knew it would be hot by midday. A clump of slaves slept in the barn, huddled together against the hay with thin horse blankets to cover their skin. They were gifts from Sigfrothr, Grani knew. _Bribes._ Offers of flesh in return for Ulf’s loyalty. 

Grani looked at their sleeping faces, one at a time, as he always did when new slaves came to the fortress. He focused on the women particularly, tracing with his eyes the curve of a cheek, the color of a strand of hair. He looked for a mark of color like a smudge of soot on a jaw. But he did not find it. None of them were Thorny. 

Grani forded the river, just West of the town, and then he rode hard and fast through the rising morning. He was far gone from Snotta’s Gate by the time the sun fully crested and arched into the sky. He kept off the roads as much as possible, riding instead in the wood when he could, weaving in and out occasionally to check that he still followed the bright curving trail of the Trent River in the valley below. He did not stop at a village for many hours. He had no wish to be tracked by Olaf’s men from Hreopandune, or to be forced to answer to their Lord. 

But as the sun arched down into the West and the light started to dim in the sky, Grani did track his course into a small settlement. It was little more than a handful of buildings clustered around a line of ragged docks that clung to the Southern bank of the river. He needed to know how far he had gone, and whether he had passed yet into Saxonland. 

He thought he might have when he saw the priests, shepherding a group of villagers to the chapel for some…ritual or prayer, Grani did not know. There were priests in Snotta’s Gate, of course. It was impossible to avoid them, even in a Heathen camp, but these priests seemed comfortable, confident, unwary in their worship. And that meant that Grani was among Saxons. 

He could have slept in the woods, but trees did not talk, and it was information that Grani needed more than anything now. Instead, he found his way to the village’s small, careworn alehouse, and he kept his hood high as he ordered a drink and found himself a table. There were a handful of men in one corner, laughing and talking boisterously. _The sinners_ , Grani thought wryly. They had skipped their worship. But as he listened, he heard only foolish jokes about women and horses, and women who looked like horses, and nothing about the Lady Aethelflaed or her army. 

Soon his mind dulled slightly to the chatter of the Saxons. He was taken off guard when the woman found him. 

“Do you want company?” she asked, putting a hand on his knee. 

She was not a child, but she was young as he was young. She wore her hair loose, as loose women did, and it flared red-gold in the tavern’s torch light. She had wide gray eyes and a small, round mouth, and she smiled at him as she sat beside him. 

Grani drew down his hood, revealing his face and the hammer pendant that hung around his neck. “Do you take the company of Danes?” 

She smiled again and her eyes sparkled as she looked at him. “I am not so picky as that.” 

He nodded, finishing his mug with a long draught. He stood and took her hand. 

Her eyes shadowed with a sudden caution. “I am not for beating,” she said. 

“I will not beat you.” 

He did not realize until that moment how hot he was for a woman, how grateful he was to be offered that relief. In Ulf’s hall, the only women for use by the likes of him were slaves, and Grani did not lie with slaves, even if they were willing. There would be pleasure in it at first, but then his mind would twist, and he would see Thorny’s face beneath him. He would lose his taste for pleasure then.

This woman was not a slave. He gave her three silver pennies, and she drew closed the curtain around his small sleeping cell. She pulled his tunic from him gently, and let her fingers drift across his chest until he pressed her against him with urgent need. Then she straddled him, and lifted her dress so that he could slide deep inside of her. 

The heat of it crested through him, and he clutched her hips with his hands, rocking her against him until he came deep within her. She laid soft kisses on his chest before she rolled off of him, and she even let him hold her in his arms for a few long moments before she stood to leave with a parting smile. Grani thought she might have had some pleasure in the act, but that might have just been her craft. 

Perhaps she was the one who told the men. 

Grani was half-asleep when they came, and he awoke, startled at the sound of bodies pressing close to him in the dark. 

“What —?” 

Grani felt hands curl around his ankles, and then he was jerked violently from his bed. He cried out, twisted, fumbled for his knife and his ax where they lay in the dark, but his hands could not find them. Then the bed vanished from beneath him, and his head hit the ground with a sickening crack. Pain and shock erupted through his skull, and his eyes, already useless in the dim light, went completely black. 

“Dirty heathen!” A man was yelling down at him. “Filthy Dane!” They were kicking him, he realized, kicking against his ribs with their leather-shod feet, and Grani curled into himself and tried not to retch. 

“We know you’ll steal our women. Murder our children! Take our daughters for your whores!” 

Grani flailed out with his arms, catching one man around the legs, and the man crashed down on top of him with a grunt and a cry. They grappled for a moment on the floor, Grani’s head still sick with pain. He landed a punch on the man’s jaw and then struggled desperately up, clawing against the bed in search of his ax. Another man was grabbing him from behind, trying to pull his arms back, but Grani found the handle of his weapon and turned….

The knife plunged into his arm, slicing into the skin and tendons between his elbow and his wrist. He could not help but scream and twist away and slash out with his other hand, swinging his ax towards the man’s face. It hit, with a wet thunk, and the man stumbled backwards against the curtain. 

“GET BACK!” Grani screamed. “ALL OF YOU!” He swung his ax again, with the wild abandon of a berserker, and the remaining men dodged. He thought there were two or three of them left. His skull still sang like a pack of baying hounds. 

He did not think. He charged, barreling towards them and through them, wrenching down the curtain and stumbling wretchedly into the hall. The light was brighter here, and it burned sickeningly into his eyes, making the whole world slur and streak with strange streams of color. The man he had hit lay on the ground, gasping and clutching his jaw…or…what was left of his jaw. 

Grani ran. The other men were still behind him, calling jeering words and threats as they chased him, but their meanings were lost in the slush of his mind. A door swung beneath his hands, and he was out in the yard, the air sharp and stinging and cool on his skin. He was wet, he realized, he was wet, but no, that was just the blood, streaming down through his fingers from the gash in his arm. He could no feel no pain in the wound, nor his wrist or his hand, but that was little comfort. 

“GET HIM!” A man yelled from behind. “GET THE HEATHEN!” The words echoed in his mind, as if he stood in the belly of a large quarry. The sounds bounced against the inside of his skull. He pulled himself through the door of the stable, leaving bloody handprint smears against the timber, and the horses squealed and startled slightly at his clear panic. 

“Faxi!” He yelled, desperately, almost tearfully, suddenly fearing that they had killed his horse before coming to find him. But Faxi was there, tall and gray and broad-chested, and Grani only had time to throw the saddle on Faxi’s back before the men were charging into the stable in his wake. 

It was a mess of a job, the saddle half tacked, the reins little more than a tether. The horses’s bit had been taken out and was lost in the dark corners of the stable stall. The saddlebags would have to be abandoned. It was that, or Grani’s life. 

He swung himself up onto Faxi’s back, and the motion of it set a sharp aching shock up through his spine, bursting through his head like the back of an ax. He could not help but double over and vomit onto the stable floor. The attackers had reached the stall now, and they would cut his horse down, he knew. They would kill them both, they would — 

“GO!” He screamed at Faxi, kicking against him and slapping his side with all the strength left in his shaking muscles. The horse screamed and charged, plowing through the men, bouncing slightly off of the narrow frame of the stall, and then skidding over the hay out the stable door. 

There was a clump of harried peasants in the yard, keeping guard or just watching the spectacle, Grani did not know. But he charged through them too, and they scattered like coins dropped on a table. And Grani was out, out of the yard, out of the village, up and then off the narrow track towards the dark edge of the wood. 

The men were not following him anymore. They did not care to chase him. 

They had left him, empty-handed and gravely wounded. They had left him to die alone.

Grani woke in the wood. He remembered the fight and the fleeing, the dizzy blindness of the darkness, and the feeling of his head wandering like a loose spirit beside him. He remembered nothing more. Now he lay on the ground like a pile of horse shit, and even the sight of tree boughs above him sighing and shifting in the wind tickled his head until he felt sick. 

Faxi was gone. 

He didn’t know how long he lay there, imagining himself dying, imagining himself rotting into the soil like the fallen trunk of a tree. Would a little creature come to live inside his skull? he wondered. Would a bird make a nest from bits of cloth from his breeches? It was a dark turn of mind, but there was little else to turn his mind towards. 

But then he heard the voices. They came from a distance, followed by the muffled crash of sticks and branches through the wood. There was someone coming - there were _someones_ coming. The sound of the speech drifted like smoke through the clearing. 

“—-nearly out of oats! How will we feed it?” 

“We’re almost there. I’m sure of it. We can’t just leave it here, it’s a prize! Our prize.” 

“We’ve been wandering in the woods for over a day now. You have no idea if we’re close. Admit it.” 

“It is safer than taking the road. I thought you would understand that!” 

They spoke in English, and even though Grani’s mind was slow and sluggish, he could make meaning from the words. 

“Can we name it Princess?” This was a smaller voice, thin and high, like a young child’s. 

“It’s a stallion, Aelfwynn.” A pause. “It’s a boy!” 

“I still like the name Princess.” 

Grani was so focused on the conversation that he did not think on the fact that this…family, or whoever they were, was about to stumble onto him, half-dead in the clearing. He pulled himself up with desperate urgency, stifling the cry of pain that the motion wanted to loose from him. He leaned himself against the trunk of a nearby Beech and breathed very deeply from the effort. 

Inevitably, they arrived. There were four of them, he realized, and they were… _all_ children. The oldest one was nearly grown - a girl - but the smaller ones looked no more than six. They led horses behind them - three horses. One of which was Faxi. 

The oldest girl saw him first and stopped, stiff and wide-eyed. She gestured to the children behind her and then drew a short-handled ax from her belt and held it high. 

“He has a name,” Grani said. “It is Faxi. He is my horse.” 

“Do not move,” the girl said, very seriously. “Do not move, or I shall kill you.” 

Grani sighed, pressing his back deeper into the tree and raising his hands to show they were empty. He winced as the movement wrenched at the slash in his arm. “I will not hurt you,” he said, teeth gritted against the pain. 

They all stared at each other for a long, tense moment. The littlest ones clutched each other nervously, their eyes wides, their faces streaked with dirt and the clear tracks of tears. What had befallen these children, that they wandered alone in the wilderness? 

“Stiorra —” Another child spoke. He looked close in age to the girl, but there was a bit more baby-ness in his face. “We should leave this place. Now.” 

The girl - Stiorra - nodded tensely, and then turned to move away from Grani. 

“Wait!” Grani called, with gravel in his throat. “Can you leave my horse, please?”

Stiorra glared back at him. “And give you the means to hunt us down if you wish?” 

“Why would I wish to hunt down children like you? I have my own business.” The children looked at each other, and something dark and painful passed across their faces. 

“Because you are cruel. And viscous.” 

Grani sighed. He almost laughed. He tried to rub his face, but it only set the ache singing fiercer. It would be his luck, to be left for dead by a gaggle of children. 

“It is because I am a Dane,” he said, without question. 

Stiorra’s glare sharpened. “No. It is because you are a man. I do not fear Danes. I am more than half a Dane.” She spoke with fierce, almost angry pride. 

“Then you and I share something in common. Please. Leave my horse. I swear it, I shall not harm you. I do not think I could, even if I wished it.” 

The children looked at each other again. Grani let his head fall into his hands, awaiting their judgement. He was startled when the youngest boy spoke. 

“Do you…do you know that your head is….bleeding?” He asked, in a tiny, high-pitched tone. 

Grani brought his hand behind his head and felt the damp, sticky clotting of old blood. “I…did not know. But I am not surprised. My head, it is…broken. Inside.” 

“He is injured, Stiorra,” the older boy whispered, plenty loud enough for Grani to hear. “Look at his arm, too.” Grani did not follow their gaze to his arm. He knew already what he would see. 

“I do not see how that is our problem.” 

“What happened to you?” The boy asked. He seemed more charitable than the girl. 

“I was attacked. And left for dead. By a group of Saxons.” 

“And what did you do to them?” 

“I did _nothing_ to them.” 

Another long pause. Another meaningful look. 

“I have no food,” Grani started, cautiously. These children might have been his only hope, he could not let them leave. Not yet. “No means of fire —”

“We do not have enough food to share, _even if we wished it._ ” The girl parroted his own words back to him. She was as fierce as feral cat, that one. It almost made him smile. 

“A fire then,” he said, not even trying not to beg. “Just…a fire, if you have the means. And my horse, when you leave. Please.” 

Stiorra glared at him for several breaths, while the other boy looked on tentatively. Then she nodded, and he seemed relieved. He started collecting sticks, and gathering them in a small pile at Stiorra’s feet. She was fumbling with her tinder pouch. 

“I will make the fire over here, and you can come to it when we leave. If you move before then, I. will. kill. you.” 

Perhaps Grani’s face was painted with doubt, because the girl brandished her ax again and narrowed her eyes at him. “I have killed a man already. Just yesterday. A man who wished to hurt us. I will not hesitate to do it again.” 

Grani understood then, at least a part of it. The tense rod of steel in the girl’s body. The bitterness in her voice that almost masked the fear. 

“I understand,” he said, softly. “You are a warrior.” 

She nodded, a fierce little motion, and set to her work. The boy was rummaging in a pack, bringing out a loaf of bread. He darted a nervous glance at the girl, and then broke off a piece and threw it into Grani’s lap. 

“Uhtred!” Stiorra reprimanded, and then paled a bit, looking between Grani and Uhtred with wide eyes. 

“Uhtred—?” The name was familiar, Grani thought, but he could not place it. His mind was too sick and loose for that. 

Uhtred was glaring at Stiorra, and for once she looked uncertain and guilty. 

“So you are Stiorra, and you are Uhtred,” Grani said, trying to clear the moment. “And who are you, little ones?” 

The littlest girl opened her mouth but Stiorra cut her off. “Do not tell him _anything_.” 

“Where are you going? Why are you out here?” 

“We are not telling you _anything!_ ” 

Grani laughed, and the girl’s face flushed a bit with embarrassment. 

“You are fierce, little Dane,” he said. She did not reply. 

Grani thought he had drifted off for a bit. It was hard to say - he remembered eating his bread, gumming the stale crust until it softened and he could force down his dry throat. Maybe the filling of his belly had calmed his mind to rest. But he was alert again now, still propped against the tree, still aching as if he were a chunk of wood recently split with an ax. To his surprise, the children were still there, watching him over the high dancing flames of their newborn fire. 

“I thought you would be gone by now. And likely have stolen my horse, as well.” 

“If we had, it would have been in repayment for our charity!” 

“Half a loaf and a fire? For a horse? Horses must be quite cheap, where you come from.” 

The boy Uhtred stifled a laugh, and Stiorra glared at him. 

“You are injured,” the boy said. 

“I have noticed, thank you.” 

“Where are you heading?” 

“You tell me nothing, and expect me to tell you anything of my own plans?”

“Well, we do seem to have the upper hand, yes.” 

Grani tried not to smile. “I am heading…West.” 

Uhtred and Stiorra shared a look, and the girl seemed to come to some difficult decision. “We are riding North….to a camp. You may ride with us, if you wish.” 

Grani’s heart sped in his chest. _A camp_? Could it be possible? Uhtred was whispering to Stiorra again, and Grani caught the shape of the words. “I’m not certain that will want us to bring…a Dane? Into the camp?” 

“He can’t do anything to them! He’s half dead,” she retorted. “They can kill him if they wish.” 

“A tempting offer, I admit,” Grani said dryly. “But I fear I must decline.” 

“There is a leech where we are going. A healer. She will tend you.” 

“If the others do not kill me, I imagine.” 

Stiorra hid her own smile. “And you have lots of other offers then?” She was capricious, her mood shifting as quick as the wind, making him her enemy one moment and her tentative friend the next. She was very much like a Dane. 

Grani was a Dane, too. “Well…” he said, as if in deep consideration. “The Lady Aethelflaed is waiting for me.” 

It was a gamble, but Grani knew in an instant that he had hit something. The children’s eyes went wide, their faces becoming pale and twisting with shock. The littlest girl looked at him with fierce curiosity. 

“You know my mother?” 

“Aelfwynn!!” Stiorra screamed at the girl. 

“ _Your mother?!”_ Grani could not have been more shocked if the sun had fallen out of the sky and rolled towards him like a golden arm ring. “ _You are Lady Aethelflaed’s children?!_ ”

“Say nothing!” Stiorra yelled. “Nothing!” She threw a desperate look at Uhtred and then turned to Grani, her face grim. “We will have to kill him,” she said. “We have no choice. Uhtred, take the children —”

“No!” Grani raised his hands again. Stiorra was already stalking towards him. “No! It was a joke, it was a jest! I will tell you the truth!” Stiorra paused. “I am Lord Ulf’s man. I came to spy on Lady Aethelflaed’s camp. To spy! Nothing more.” 

Stiorra’s chest was pumping with panic, her ax still clutched very tightly in her hand. Grani felt his own fear seeping out through the moment. 

“If you take me to her camp,” he spoke with the calm, controlled manner of a horse-tamer. “If you take me to her camp, I will come as your prisoner. I swear it. I cannot fight you. I will come as your prisoner, and I shall make my case to your mother myself.” 

“She is not my mother.” Stiorra threw the words down at him. “But my father will be there. They call him the Daneslayer.” 

“I thought you were a Dane.” 

“And I thought you were not a lying sneak!” 

“I swear it, Stiorra.” Grani clasped his uninjured hand around the Thor’s hammer at his neck. “I will die, if you leave me here. You are my only hope. I will come as your hostage. And who will be the warrior then?” 

Her eyes narrowed, but he saw the spark in them. He knew she wished to prove her worth - why else would she have run away to a warrior’s camp? Her pride was his last, fragile hope.

“We shall bind your hands. You shall not man your own horse!” 

Grani nodded. It was a humiliation, he knew, to be taken as hostage by children. If Lord Ulf and his men ever found out about it, Grani’s reputation would never recover. But there were more important things than reputation, Grani knew. 

It was more important to live. Grani had things to do. 

He still had to find Thorny. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out! I have admittedly gotten carried away with writing my Colleg AU (frivolous and foolish? yes. very fun? also yes.) 
> 
> I'm not sure I can promise the weekly update schedule for the next few weeks. I might just choose to throw myself into writing a one-shot that's currently inhabiting my mind and get that out before I dive back into writing more new content here. My brain does not switch gears very easily between projects. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience as always, and thank you for your commitment to this story! It means the world. I would be nowhere without all your kindness.


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